Lost Name
by Kaen Okami
Summary: "...Victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two." We all know Haymitch, but who was the other victor? Whose story was never told? This is the Hunger Games of Tirion Sagitto, the first victor of District Twelve.
1. Woods

**Tirion's POV**

I turn the knife over and over again in my hand as I await the morning. My eye is not on the brightening sky or the sun that gradually illuminates us and, with its coming, marks the day of condemnation for two of us.

It is on the knife, making one repetitive whirl with every twist and rotation of my wrist; the silver blade, still shining with water from its recent cleaning in the stream, glints in the light of the newly breaking dawn and reflects my face, which I am satisfied to see is still impassive, and does not betray the worry that gnaws at my core.

The questions that always come on reaping day come now, when my thoughts turn dark and bloody and unnerving, and they swirl, slow and stagnant, like a sluggish whirlwind in my head.

Who is going? Will I know them? Will they be my friends, or someone I have only few memories of? Will it be me? How would I survive? What would happen to me? Or…Could it be Kaia, who is chosen?

I grimace as I consider the thought. Fate is terribly cruel to me. First my sister, then my father, then my brother were taken from me already; why not take my closest friend as well? Or take me, instead. I would actually prefer that, if not for the fact that if I were gone, my mother could die, sooner or later, without me to provide for us.

Life and death…soon or late…Everything that exists controls the existence of something else, in a way; and everything that happens will always affect something else. Something dies so something else may live. It seems to me to be like a chain that connects it all together.

I laugh softly as I catch myself thinking these things. I do sometimes delve into my mind and have these philosophical thoughts as I wonder about things. It's not a usual thing, as my mind is normally on more practical thoughts, such as bringing home food for my mother and I, and Kaia's family as well. I am grateful that my mind has snapped back into focus, because I see a nice meal walking blithely into the clearing before me.

It's a young deer, come to nibble the tender and sweet green grass of early summer in the bright clearing in front of the thick, dark edge of the forest where I lie in wait. It's a buck that's just matured out of fawn-hood, its new antlers short and still velvety, so it should be old enough to be cautious walking into an open place. That is, if it was familiar with human predators. Apparently it did not detect me as it strode out into the sunlight, not knowing that a human scent meant danger.

It's not careful at all. Pity. I'd be a fool to let such a bountiful kill as this go. Especially on reaping day. Fortunately, I've never been a fool. I planned on getting some good food for a special meal today, and this deer – a treasure trove of meat – will be perfect. Yes, I'll just get this and head home.

I reach slowly behind me to place the knife back in its sheath and then to reach an arrow. It's taking a chance, using the bow to kill this deer, but it's my current ambition to master the bow and arrow just as I have mastered the blade. Any knife or sword I can use well, to hunt or to fight with, though I have never had reason to do the latter.

I raise the bow with one hand and bring the arrow to the string with the other, never taking my eyes off the nonchalantly grazing deer. Every movement I make now is deliberate and careful, so as not to frighten the deer and lose it. I've learned how to mask my presence very effectively over the years, and my mother says I have a "natural stillness" in me. I pull the bowstring back, and let the arrow fly.

The arrow streaks over the grass, piercing through first the warm air, and then the hide and flesh of the deer's chest, lodging in the animal's heart. It falls instantly; I don't even think it knows what just happened to it. It's over in half a moment. Quick and relatively painless for the deer, a wonderful meal provided for me. Those two things make me feel better about killing almost each day. No – not better. I always feel a tiny twinge of uneasiness about taking life, even animal life to feed my family. Not better. Just more…I don't know. I don't much like the idea of killing, but still, it's preferable to the idea of starvation.

I walk out to the body of the deer, and with great difficulty take it and lift it partially over my shoulder. I put the bow back with my free hand, and heft the deer completely over my shoulders. It's exhausting work, but I can manage; I've done harder things before. It would be easier if I had a partner to hunt with, but Kaia won't do. She wanted to try it a couple years ago, because she wanted to help, and she tried her hardest to learn for an impressive while, but she never really got the hang of it.

I stop periodically on my way to the butcher's to check my snares and traps, and am pleased with what I've caught today. A belt of fat rabbits and squirrels and a couple of yellowish-pink-scaled fish. The herbs and plants piled in my game bag. Most are for food, but some are for healing. You never know when they might come in handy. It's often seemed to me that there are too many ways to hurt and not enough ways to be healed.

Under cover of predawn darkness, I make my way to the house of the butcher, Hezur. Thankfully, no one has seen me with this deer, and I'll get its full value. Hezur is always pleased to see me, since my hunts always provide her with fresh meat, and she is especially happy with such a bounty as this large buck.

"You make me rich, boy," Hezur rasps as she examines the deer to see what it's worth. "You just keep bringing me good meat and we'll stay good friends." She smiles widely, revealing a mouth missing several teeth, as she gives me a little bag fashioned out of scraps of burlap with my money inside.

"I'm sure we will, Hezur," I agree airily as I toss the bag in the air once and catch it, hearing the metallic jingling of the coins inside, and step out of her shop to go to the Hob and the back doors of the people of the district and trade the rest of my game. I intend to push for a little more with my trades today, and assemble that nice reaping day meal I want.

**~0~**


	2. Home

**[A/N] Just a heads-up - Not all of the chapters will be from Tirion's point of view. **

**Tirion's POV**

I arrive home about a half-hour after the sun has completely risen. My mother waits in our old, rickety rocking chair close to the door, like every morning as she awaits my return. She jumps up the second I enter the house.

Years have passed since the deaths of my siblings and my father, but still she is a tiny bit too excited when I walk through the door, a little too nervous whenever I leave the house, slightly too eager to have me at home. Still living in fear that something will happen to me, her only living child. Anything could, really. I could be seriously injured in the woods, perhaps, and die because I couldn't get the proper help in time. I could be caught and arrested for hunting, and whipped badly or shot as punishment. I can only imagine the anxiety and terror she will have to endure each and every day when I turn eighteen and have to work in the mines, a place of perpetual danger.

Not that I'm exactly looking forward to going into the mines for twelve hours a day, six days a week when that time comes. I hate feeling cramped and closed in anywhere, let alone in the darkness that seems almost tangible, like a living, malevolent force engulfing me and pressing on me, suffocating and imprisoning me – that darkness that only comes from the poorly lit recesses of the underground.

It's nothing like the light blackish-gray shade of coming night in the woods, where I can see the natural world around me lulled to sleep, and look up and see the beautiful blue of the darkening evening sky, adorned with the breathtaking, shining red-gold jewel of the setting sun, as the cool twilight breezes quietly whisper through the trees and grass and gently toss my hair around as I make my way home.

No. The crushing darkness I will be trapped in is nothing like the quiet pleasure of the woods falling to night. I dread the day I will be cursed to endure that darkness for the rest of my life. The mines are an especially haunting place for me after the violent death of my brother. I can still see his young body, gasping his last breaths, every part of him spattered with his own blood…

For what has to be the thousandth time, I force the memories of death to the back of my mind, force my face to stay mild and not register emotion, desperate to keep the flash of pain and memory from my mother.

I occupy myself by laying the results of my morning hunting and trading on the rickety kitchen table after brushing off the coal dust. A multitude of herbs, a particularly plump rabbit, two loaves of raisin bread, a handful of freshly picked blackberries, a bunch of ripe strawberries, three red apples, a good-sized lump of not-quite-stale goat cheese, and a small package of something my mother would never have expected.

"Tirion, what is this?" she asks, puzzled, as she picks up the crinkly, thin white paper package and turns it in her hands. She takes in a surprised intake of breath as she opens it and finds the treats inside. Four vividly colored, elliptical candies and two still-warm cookies, one chocolate and the other sugar. She turns to me, her mouth forming a distinct 'O' of shock. "Tirion, how did you get these?"

"Lek gave them to me." I smile, remembering the insistence of the youngest child of the owner of the sweetshop in town.

"I had just finished trading with his father for the apples – he was feeling nice today and gave me three instead of two, because of…you know." I see a shadow pass over my mother's face at the mention of the reaping, and know that my face must look the same.

"Well, anyway," I continue, hoping to keep our thoughts off the reaping and on the food. "He gave me the apples in exchange for the two fish I caught - you know how he enjoys them – and after he had gone back into the store and I was leaving, Lek came running over to me. He pushed the package into my hands and said, 'You'll like these. They're good. You can share them with your mother.' I was speechless for a second when I saw what they were and what Lek was doing, but I recovered and thanked him after a few moments. Ruffled his hair a little, too, he can never keep it neat anyway. He grinned, then put a finger to his lips and said, 'Just don't tell my dad!' and then he ran back inside."

My mother smiled. "What a sweet boy."

"His father would kill him if he found out, though. But I think," I say, unable to keep the present out of the conversation any longer. "I think he was just giving me a reaping day gift, like his father giving me the extra apple."

"It's still a good thing for a boy his age to do for someone else," my mother says, frowning. "What is he? Six?"

"Seven, I think. Remember you made that red shirt for him?" I remind her.

"I think it looked very nice on him," she says, remembering the young boy excited at the new clothes.

While I put food on the table by hunting, my mother supports us by making clothes, when we have made enough money between us to purchase cloth and other necessary supplies. Personally I think she is excellent at her work, and so do her customers, who thank her with many heartfelt words and a bit of food if it can be spared.

We take it thankfully. I have only made out so well today in my trading, for an adequate haul of game, because of the atmosphere of reaping day. It's not exactly comradely, but we do feel obligated to stay together, in a sense, as the people of the poorest district coming closer in the face of the Capitol's most sadistic torment: the Hunger Games. Some people in the town might think themselves superior to those from the Seam, but on reaping day, or any other day for that matter, we are all the same.

We are all under the rule of the Capitol, and none of us have any power to stand against this force of many, these people I have never seen – save for Peacekeepers – who make us live in poverty and darkness and suffering. My mind races with sudden thoughts of darkest hatred for these phantom tormentors on this day, reaping day, the epitome of the year's grieving. Why was this eternal hardship forced upon the people of the districts? Why do we suffer for their gain? Why should we? Why, if we, the district people, can support this great and all-powerful city by our efforts, why can't we use that same effort to do something about our current pitiful situation? We could do it. We could, if only there were some brilliant idea, some well-thought plan…

Everything inside me freezes suddenly when I realize what I have just been letting myself think, and a chill of fear runs its icy fingers down my spine. These are dangerous thoughts. This way of thinking will only lead to pain. It is nothing of use in the way of putting food on the table, or ensuring the safety of my family and friends. In fact, such ideas of rebellion would throw them directly in harm's way. It could get them whipped or worse, and it would surely get me, the instigator, publicly executed.

It would be too costly to get myself killed for such a cause that will bring about nothing. I can't afford to do anything foolish and get a bullet through my head for my trouble, and leave the ones I love alone. No, I'll be smart and silent. I will not let such a thing happen to me. Like it happened to my father…

"Tirion?" my mother asks. Her voice breaks through the torrent of unsettling thoughts. I suddenly become aware that I'm clutching the corner of the kitchen table in a grip so hard my knuckles have turned white, I'm clenching my teeth down in the soft flesh of my inner lip, which is screaming in protest, and my muscles are tensed to the point of aching, but my body is shaking all over. "Tirion?" she asks again, frowning in confusion at my sudden change and taking a tentative step forward. "What's the matter?"

I give myself an internal shake, and quickly try to compose myself. I can't let my mind take me off in a completely wrong direction like that.

"Nothing," I assure her, and I am relieved to find my voice steady and normal. "Just…thoughts."

This does not calm her, I can see it in her expression, but it is enough for now. She understands.

"So," I say to break the tension. "What should we eat now?" I drag a smile onto my face and make a sweeping gesture to the food. But before my mother can answer, we hear the knocks, and then the familiar, noisy opening creaks of an old wooden front door in desperate need of repair.

**~0~**


	3. Secret

**Tirion's POV**

My mother looks out through the layer of coal dust settled on the window at the just-risen sun making its way up in the brightening blue sky. "Who is that – This early?" she mutters to herself. She is puzzled for a moment until she remembers the only person who could be visiting us this early in the morning. I smile, for real now, because I knew right away.

"Hello? Tirion, Liana; are you home?"

My mother and I exchange satisfied looks on hearing her voice. I answer her call, "We're in the kitchen, Kaia. You're just in time for a little breakfast."

"Much more than a little," my mother says, also smiling. "Come on in."

She pokes her head in the doorway, brushes away the dark tan hair that had flown into her face, and when she sees the food on the table, her gray Seam eyes widen and she draws in an audible gasp.

"Well, I see someone had a good morning," Kaia says, walking in and admiring the bounty on the table, then turning to smile at me. "How are you both?" she asks, looking from me to my mother.

"Fine." I say tersely. Considering the circumstances, I am, but it's reaping day. Nobody is really fine today.

"Are your mother and Rowan coming?" I ask in a more friendly tone, to ease any remaining tension in the air. Kaia nods. "I just wanted to make sure you were here."

"Good," my mother says brightly. "We'll eat together."

I inwardly frown. Does she mean she wanted to know if I was home, or if my mother and I were awake and ready for visitors? Somehow I want to think that she meant she wanted to see me. I wonder, does she enjoy my company the same way I so deeply enjoy hers?

I silently watch her as she examines the meal fixings on the table. I've known her since we were five years old, and the years passed and our friendship deepened and we came to know each other better than we knew ourselves; and I became surer and surer that we would always remain the closest of friends.

But although I was right in my prediction, for the past few years, my feelings have changed, and I'm not sure it's for the better. When I look at Kaia now, I notice things I never did before. I notice how lithe and beautiful she is. I notice how smooth and fluid her movements are, and how lovely her light, sweet voice is. I notice the balance of light and dark – silver and deeper gray – in her irises, which are an almost flowerlike shape.

I especially notice how pleasant she is to be with, how bright and optimistic she'll be even when things are so difficult and terrible. She can make anyone feel nice, even if it's only a little bit. But it always, always counts.

Even at those times when all the pain and fear and sorrow and anger in me rush up on me all at once, and I feel so weak and helpless, like I'm drowning and suffocating in despair and there's nothing, absolutely nothing I can do about it, she can bring me back. She can make me feel like there is use in going on in my life. She can put her arm over my shoulders, and remind me of things like the promise I made to myself to protect and support my family, my own strength of spirit that she knows can bring me through anything, and the love she and the rest of my family have for me.

She never knew how it made me feel to hear her say that she had love for me. It made everything that hurt wash out of me to hear her tell me that, even if her love is only that of a friend for a friend or a sister for a brother. But my feelings are different. As we have grown and matured, I noticed something in myself as well. Something different in how I felt towards Kaia.

I started to see her in a different light. At first I didn't know how to describe this change in myself, couldn't make sense of my new, complex, powerful emotions. All the thoughts and feeling flying around in my mind and heart were foreign to me but still strangely pleasant. I tried hard to work out what I was feeling every time I was around Kaia, and there was only one conclusion that I kept coming back to and finally had to accept as true.

I came to realize that I had fallen in love with Kaia. It's an indescribably beautiful feeling, to love someone with all your heart. But I can't bring myself to let on at all. We've been friends for so long, it almost feels awkward to have my best friend become the object of my romantic affection. Never having been in love before, I've no idea what to do. What if I ended up doing everything all wrong? What if it's not real love I'm feeling, just youthful infatuation?

And if I were to tell her, how would she react? What would she think? How would it affect our relationship? Our friendship? No, I can't reveal my feelings for Kaia. I can't do anything to affect the friendship we've spent twelve long years building. I don't want this to change.

"Tir? Something wrong?" Kaia looks at me with concern in her eyes, apparently noticing some sign of my mind working over this dilemma.

"No, it's okay, it's nothing," I assure her. And nothing is wrong, really. Whatever the problems, love feels good, and I am more or less content with where we stand now. I step over to the table next to her and decide to focus on what to eat for breakfast instead of mastering my affections. "I think goat cheese and strawberry halves on the bread, and portions of apple and rabbit with it would make a good little meal. Does that sound good to you?"

"It sounds perfect."

"And that's not even the best part," my mother says with a smile. "Wait until you see what Tirion was able to get as a treat today."

Kaia's face breaks into an anticipatory grin. "What is it?" she asks eagerly.

Cookies and candy. We've never been able to afford any before; it was only Lek's innocent kindness that got them for us. She'll be so happy…

Just then, we hear a voice come from the direction of the front door. "Hello? Is anyone home?"

My mother calls back, "We're here, Farrah; please come in!"

"In the kitchen, mother!" Kaia adds.

Farrah peers into the kitchen and her mouth forms a wide 'O' of surprise when she sees the food. One second later Kaia's younger brother Rowan tears into the room. "Hi, Tir! Hi, Liana!" he greets my mother and I brightly.

"Hi, Rowan," I say, the just-turned-four-year-old's excitable nature.

"It's good to see the three of you," my mother says, looking from Farrah, to Kaia, to Rowan. "Now that we're all here, let's eat!"

"Yeah!" Rowan says, jumping up and throwing his fist in the air before scrambling into a chair. Kaia and I exchange small smiles before she takes my hand and leads me to a seat at the table, taking the seat next to me. I cherish our closeness, both physical and friendly, and immerse myself in the happiness she will always bring to me as my mother prepares the meal, and banish all thoughts I can of the shadow of the reaping that floats in my consciousness, that will tear two District 12 children away from everything they cherish forever.

**~0~**


	4. Warrior

**And now to bring in Tirion's fellow tributes! (The ones that are important to the plot, anyway…) The next few chapters will introduce some of them.**

**Rakhir's POV**

"So what do you say, old pal, think this year's the year?" Arno flashes a snakelike grin from where he waits on the cracked, weathered stone street in front of my house, his jade-green eyes glittering with enthusiasm for the coming day's events. "Or are ya too scared?"

I smirk. I've been boasting to my friends that I'll be volunteering for this year's Hunger Games ever since the last one ended. And really, doesn't every aspiring Career? It's my last chance, since I just turned eighteen last month. From the time I was old enough to watch the Games and understand what being a victor meant, I have set my sights on becoming one.

It's not an easy thing, but I am totally confident in my own strength. I've spent years working for this ambition, and I'm not the kind to let anything go. And I'm not the kind to worry much about competition, either. Over years of training and fighting in District 2, the district of the powerful and combative, I've become a great fighter, and have earned a reputation for being strong and proud, but also ruthless and unrelenting. It's a good thing to have, in my opinion. Any competition here knows who Rakhir Vadállat is, and soon every tribute and every viewer of the Games will know too. Competition was meant to be blown away by a fighter of true victor material, and I am that fighter this year. I'm not scared in the slightest.

"What's there to be scared of, Arno?" I say. I step with one foot onto the edge of the roof of my house. "Glitterbugs from One?"

"Fish-faces from Four?" Arno suggests, his grin widening as we use the mocking names our district has for the people of the other districts. "Or maybe tree-huggers from Seven?"

"They haunt your dreams at night, buddy."

"How about harvest mites from Eleven? Do those send chills down your spine?" he continues to taunt mock-maliciously, though, I think, if you didn't know him like I do you'd never be able to tell the difference.

"Not any of those, but…" I leap from the roof - a feat I can manage well because the roof is low and I've been doing it for years, since my 'bedroom' is the roof – and land effortlessly on my feet in front of Arno. I put on a convincingly serious face, and say in a hushed voice, as if I'm telling him my deepest secret, "You know what scares me the most?"

"What?" says Arno, acting astonished.

I lean in to his ear and whisper, fighting a smile, "Coal rats from Twelve!"

He jerks his head back as I step away, and we both burst into uproarious laughter at the ridiculousness of the idea.

"What, you scared they'll come and nip you?" Arno gets out, laughing after every other word. "They ain't nothing, I'll tell you how to get rid of them: Just toss a bit of cheese off a cliff and they'll leap after it!"

"Forget that, I'll just snap their necks!" I say, making a gesture with my fingers that imitates jerking a tribute from Twelve's head sharply to the side and breaking his neck. "They're pathetic anyway," I say, serious now.

"Aren't all the rest?" Arno says, crossing his arms behind his head.

"Yeah, but coal rats are the _most _pathetic," I amend. "They've never had a single victor and I know they never will."

"No tribute of theirs has ever even made it to the final ten, let alone win," Arno remarks. "I guess they'll be fun to weed out, huh?"

"All of them will," I agree. I start off down the street, motioning for Arno to come along. He uncrosses his arms, jams his fists in his pockets, and follows me. He assumes his usual position of a second-in-command - on the right side of the leader, but just behind – as we prowl together through the predawn shadows.

"So where are we going this fine morning?" he asks.

"First we're going to pick up the rest of the gang," I tell him, not having made any plans for the day besides the reaping. "Then we go to the prize fight rings."

"Fine by me," Arno says. "We'll need the rest of them today. You know how the fighting spirit fires up around reaping time."

I make a low grunt in response. In District 2, we are raised as fighters, and with that mindset comes a want for power and prestige. So virtually all our district's youth forms gangs that have the sole purpose of fighting other gangs for different reasons, such as strength, a reputation, or simply to have a group of companions.

These are all good things to have, especially if one plans to become a tribute. If someone wants to volunteer, it's usually the strongest person that will get his or her wish. Here, the decision of who will volunteer is decided by a fight, and the winner will volunteer without anyone challenging them at the actual reaping. Usually, if a person is planning on volunteering, he or she defeats rivals for the position a couple months or so in advance, to rid themselves of opposition early.

Naturally, as one of the top contenders for the position of this year's male tribute for District 2, I've had to fight off plenty of others who want a chance at glory, sometimes with my gang, but mostly on my own. Now with reaping day here, I just have one more adversary to take care of.

We find the first two members of my gang finishing their work at the blacksmith's.

"Rakhir!" Girvin shouts when he sees me, dropping the poker he had been using to stoke the fire to the floor with a clatter and trotting over. "You're finally here!"

"You came just in time, we're almost finished," says Fabron, the older and decidedly smarter of the two stepbrothers. He doesn't take his eyes off the metal thing he's forging. It doesn't quite have a definite shape yet, but it looks like some kind of tool.

"Good for you," Arno snaps, slightly affronted at being ignored completely.

"So," Girvin says eagerly, ignoring Arno again. "We're going to the prize fighting place, right?" I nod, but he already knows the answer and keeps talking before I'm halfway done with the motion.

"Great! I can't wait to see who's up next! I win a couple more fights and I'll finally have enough money to get that new pair of brass knuckles I liked." He grins savagely, imagining the combat, and I smirk in satisfaction.

Girvin is young, only just about to turn fifteen. But he's already huge and strong, and only an inch shorter than me at six feet five inches. If he can do something with his fists, he'll be glad to do it. His method of fighting involves one basic principle – to beat the living daylights out of his opponent until they can't punch back. Very simple, yet so effective if pulled off right.

Fabron's weapons of choice are a long glaive and his own cleverness. He'll fight like a dancer, almost; stepping forward and back, jumping left and right, and twisting and whipping around and ducking and sidestepping to confuse his opponent to no end. At first, he strikes lightly, with quick slices and cuts. But the longer a fight draws out, the stronger his attacks become, until he is coming at his opponent like a bladed whirlwind. It interests me that Fabron and Girvin look so much alike, with the same burnt-chestnut hair and eyes the color of polished wood, but think and act so differently.

"Hey," Arno says, turning to me. "Where do you think Leib is today?"

"Probably hiding off somewhere where it'll take us all day to find him," Fabron says. "Just like he usually is."

Leib enjoys time to himself very much, and usually does not take the gang's plans into account when he goes off to find a place where he can be alone with his thoughts. If we want him to join in with whatever we're doing, we usually have to hunt him down, and he's very good at concealing himself in places where it's ridiculously difficult to find him.

"Regular pain in the neck," Arno says.

"Now is that really what you think of me?" says a low, smooth voice from behind. We all simultaneously turn around to see Leib Seco walking casually towards us. His voice had a wounded tone to it, but we all knew it was false. Leib knew Arno's words were a term of affection as well as a complaint. I study his face, but find it as unreadable as always.

Leib is the quietest member of the gang. And yet, strangely, he could easily be the most fear-inducing. Tall, leonine, unsmiling. Always looking like he can see right through you with his golden-brown eyes. His gaze makes you feel like he knows things about you, extremely important things. In a fight, his physical weapons are two long, curved blades that bear an uncanny resemblance to claws. But his greatest weapon is his skill of unnerving people. At that, he is the undisputed master. Admittedly, he even makes me nervous. But just on some occasions, which are few and far between.

"Nah, man, I was kidding," Arno says. He raises his closed hand for a fist bump, but it is ignored as Leib steps past him over to me.

"Prize fights?" he asks. I nod.

"Well, if we want to clear up any remaining competition before the reaping, we need to do it quickly," he says. "The sun's already up." He gestures to it and I see his point. The reaping takes place in the late morning.

"Let's get a move on then," I agree. "Come on, let's go look for Renny and Daiza and –"

"No," Leib says. "I already told Renny to meet us at the entrance to the prizefighting site. Saves us the trouble of getting him."

Remulous "Renny" Ossa is possibly the most slippery, immoral teenager on the planet, and the poster child for hoodlumism. Long, greasy dark hair – check. Small, cold, hard black eyes – check. Closet full of nothing but leather jackets, dirty T-shirts, and worn-out blue jeans – check. Perpetual snakelike smile – check. Array of knives hidden in the jacket and chain attached to the belt as weapons – check. Crafty, cunning personality – check. Habit of jumping people at night for a fight that gave him a better thrill – check. Renny's your stereotypical street thug, but he's pretty decent in a fight and loyal to our gang, even if the only one he'll really listen to is Leib.

"Yeah, all right, Leib," I say, standing up straighter. "So we're all here, Renny's meeting us there, and you know how Daiza is, he's probably already there or he's chasing us. Let's go!" Fabron calls into his house to inform his and Girvin's mother that they're leaving, and we set off for the abandoned stone mine outside of town, where the underground prize fights are located.

When we arrive, I step forward and start to pull back the rotted wood that used to be for blocking the mine off but was fashioned into a door by the people that run the prize fights, but I hear a sound from the rocks above me and stop dead, then step back slowly; listening, tracking and pinpointing the source of the sound. I feel the silent tension of the gang behind me and know they're bracing themselves. Not two seconds later, a small form darts out from the rocks, aiming for me. I whip my arms out in front of me and cross them to block the impact, but uncross them once I recognize what's coming at me. A small grin pulls itself onto my face, and move to meet the incoming form. I jump at it, wrap one arm completely around it, easily, and twist my body around in midair so I land on my back, with my right shoulder taking most of the impact, with my assailant trapped in my arms.

"Okay! Okay!" Daiza yelps, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle free. "You caught me, you got me! Now let me up!" When all he gets as an answer is laughter from the rest of the gang and me, because his frequent attempts at taking me by surprise and getting the better of me have failed again, he puts on such an indignant look that it only makes us laugh harder. "Rakhir!" he protests, struggling harder.

"All right, get up," I say, releasing him. He rolls off me and onto his feet, getting his balance back and dusting himself off. I rise to a sitting position and watch him. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" I ask, worried for a second that I might have accidentally harmed the youngest member of the gang.

To my relief, he replies, "No. Only my pride. And my dignity. And my – "

"Aw, cut it out, kid, you never had any of that in the first place," Arno teases, coming up and tousling Daiza's untamable brick-red hair. Daiza bats his hand away like an irritated cat does when you muss its fur, and he laughs.

"Oh, sure, laugh now," Daiza snaps, stepping back. He smiles and raises his fists in a fighter's pose. "But you just wait until I'm bigger! I'll be so strong I could beat all five of you without breaking a sweat!" He pauses and looks to be considering something. He turns to look at me. "Well, probably not Rakhir."

"So you plan on becoming invincible in the next few years?" Fabron snickers. "Get real, kiddo."

"And what's all that about beating us, hm?" Leib says. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'll rub horsemeat on myself and throw myself to the mountain lions before I let a puny kid like this beat me."

Daiza shrugs, unaffected by the teasing he's grown used to from the gang. "Hey, it might happen. Just because it hasn't happened before doesn't mean it'll never happen."

"Well, you're already a tough little guy," I say, getting to my feet. "You could be one of the best someday."

Daiza's face brightens considerably. "Yeah!" he says. "I can hold my own against anyone." He strikes a new fighter's pose, preparing to show off. "Watch this!" He goes into a series of combat moves with renewed energy, while the rest of us both laugh at his enthusiasm for battle, which he means seriously but we find humorous, and admire at how far the kid's come as a fighter.

At first glance, Daiza wouldn't be the best pick for a fighter. He's still small and scrawny at thirteen years old, the age where most District 2 boys have grown big and powerful, or at least started to be. But it's what Daiza shows himself to be, and what he has on the inside, that counts to me. He's scrappy and tough, and still retains the childlike perseverance that makes him physically incapable of giving in to anything. I believe he has more spirit in his fierce heart than all the rest of the gang put together, including me. And of course, the fact that he is unwaveringly loyal to me is a good trait of his.

"Okay," I say when Daiza finishes, lightly pounding my fists together. "We meet Renny inside, and then we find a good fight. Agreed?"

The gang mutters approval, their faces all expressing the same thirst for battle. Daiza pipes up, "Are you gonna fight Stone now, Rakhir?"

I scowl at the mention of the name of one of my least favorite people. Stone Wystan, the arrogant and self-centered favorite student of Head Peacekeeper Quille, has been my greatest rival ever since we were eight years old. He and the future members of his gang had seen me alone on the school playing field and decided to try and beat me up. _'Try' being the important word in that sentence, _I think with an internal smirk.

I had surprised all of them when I fought back. Stone had thrown a rock at me, and it struck the side of my head. He didn't know me, and he had expected me to shrink back, cower, whimper, try to run, or something of that nature when I saw I was being ganged up on. It gave him quite a surprise when I did the complete opposite. I had seen Stone acting like a big shot and pushing around younger students just because he could, and I don't like when people have power, and then they flaunt it and abuse it. So when I felt the sharp, unexpected pain of a fairly small but rugged rock sent flying into me, and I turned and saw Stone, I was furious, and a part of me was also elated at the chance to teach him a lesson.

I can still see the utter shock on Stone's face when I spun around and barreled towards him with barely a moment's hesitation. He was too surprised to react even when I swung my fist back and punched him as hard as I could right in the jaw. He went sprawling to the ground, and his friends were all staring with their mouths hanging open, as surprised as Stone was to see their intended prey bite back. Stone was the only one who recovered, and he scrambled up and aimed a kick at me. We ended up scuffling viciously in the dirt for several minutes before a teacher pulled us apart. Fights are common for Stone, as they are for me, but he never got over that first loss, where his pride suffered a serious blow. He's held a grudge against me ever since I defeated him, and his gang and mine have fought ever since.

Stone is as well known among fighters as I am, and while I can be more or less satisfied by that, Stone isn't. It isn't enough for him. He wants to be the greatest. And there can be no greater achievement than to rise to the rank of victor. Stone has been training for the Games for years, just as I have. The culmination of our efforts is today, and very soon, we will fight one last time for the coveted privilege of volunteering. If I win, the code of our district states that I can volunteer, and he cannot; and vice versa. I have better reasons for wanting to win the Games than an overinflated ego and whatever complex I'm convinced Stone has, but all the same it will satisfy me to take his chance at ultimate glory away from him. He doesn't deserve it anyway.

"Yeah," I answer Daiza. "Today's the day we take him and his gang down for good." I turn to the rest of the gang. "Right, boys?" I bark.

I am answered by shouts of exultant assent, war cries, and fist pumps. I smile, ready for any challenge. I turn, pull back the wood, and slip inside, hearing the steps of the gang close behind me.

**~0~**

**Rakhir's theme is Bodies by Drowning Pool. I found it the perfect song for a fierce fighter like him.**

**Link to the song - .com/watch?v=5JZ9djZa180 **

**Also, I forgot to mention in the last chapter – Tirion's theme is Gale's Theme. It's an original song I found on YouTube by RaeofRandomness. It's a strong, dark piece with a guardian-esque feel to it. I personally think it and the rest of her original Hunger Games music should get picked up by Lionsgate and used in the movie – It's just so perfect! **

**Link to the song- .com/watch?v=LVPAdGLSDA8&NR=1**

**~0~**


	5. Clear The Way

When we have all filed into the underground site, we are greeted by the man who runs the prizefighting rings – a middle-aged man named Reggie Kirain.

"Hey, boys," Reggie says, grinning when he recognizes one of his favorite groups of competitors. "Ya doin' okay?"

I smirk. "Yeah." Reggie's a lesser-known victor. He's maintained his strength and combat skills well despite his age, and he's one of the cleverer breed of Careers, but he pales in comparison to some of the more recent District 2 victors, like Hatalom Galád, the one I may be trying to model myself after. I don't idolize anyone, but I think my subconscious has other ideas.

I notice Daiza turn to the dog lying, relaxed but attentive, at Reggie's feet. "Hey, Hadouken," he greets it. Hadouken, an irascible animal as grizzled and greyed as his master, gives him what can only be described as a glare and a short "Rurf" as an answer, and sinks his head further between his paws. "Glad to see you too," Daiza snickers.

"In top condition for reaping day, are ya?" Reggie says, flexing the metal fingers of his artificial right arm, which he got after losing half of the natural arm in his Games.

Arno slides in front of me, mocking the crazed smile of our Capitol escort. "Oh, yes, sir," he says, sounding like he wants to laugh. "We've got ourselves a top-quality future victor here, everybody!"

His words evoke encouraging cheers from some of the surrounding people, most of them Careers-in-training like me. I'd beaten most of them in fights for the volunteering spot, but still, we do support the ones who are going into the arena. After all, it's the ambition of most of the district, and we admire the ones who are strong enough to achieve it. Of course, getting out alive is the difficult part, but when I think on what I'll fight to come back to, it gives me more of a purpose than most other Careers.

Reggie gives a raspy laugh and gulps down some more liquor from the half empty bottle next to the chair. "Course we do," he says, chuckling and grinning at me. "I stay here from dawn to dusk, watchin' all you kids train, and I see strong young boys and girls, with dreams of glory. All of them are fine fighters, but some of you stick out to me. And I apparently have a knack for picking out good tributes. Most of the ones who make a lasting impression on me fought their way into at least the top three, if they didn't win. But often, I spot victors long before they make their way into the arena. And you, boy, you're a definite one!"

I offer my own grin as the shouts of assent rise up again. My eyes move to each proud member of the gang in turn, and I see that they all have retrieved their weapons of choice from the lockers: Arno brandishes his long and shiny scimitar, which he won in a fight when the person he'd defeated turned out to not have the money to give his own share of the winnings, Girvin smashes his scratched-up, dulled pair of brass knuckles together over his head as Fabron expertly spins his glaive in his hand, Leib holds his claw-shaped blades, calm and intense and ready for battle, and even Renny, who Leib must have found and pulled over to join us, shows off his collection of knives and whirls his silvery, clinking chains. My grin broadens when I see Daiza, clearly enjoying every minute of this praise, even if it's not for him, thrusting his fists out with a defiant smirk on his face. He prefers to fight in the traditional way, with no weapons but his own body and mind, but he does have some skill with short swords which I am working to improve.

Reggie looks pleased by the positive reactions to his little speech, while Hadouken gives an annoyed growl and paws at his ears, trying to get some peace and quiet. He's used to Reggie going on and on and tuning it out, but the din of dozens of aspiring Career Tributes is just a bit too difficult to escape for the old dog.

It's a proud and gratifying moment – the kind that's excellent for self-confidence boosting – when a familiar and very unpleasant voice - smooth and attractive on the surface, but with a cold, mocking undercurrent - shatters it.

"Well, well, everyone's cheering on the triumphant loser? Glad I could crash the party."

Everyone glares in the direction of a smirking Stone Wystan approaching with his own gang of four others, but don't say a word. Despite his fighting skills, no one really likes him, but Stone can command a good amount of respect if anything, and one must tread cautiously when dealing with him because of his tendency to whine to Head Peacekeeper Quille, his trainer and close family friend, if anyone is anything less than reverent towards him. His gang shares his arrogance and self-bestowed superiority, and though I don't know them well and have no desire to anyway, I think they're only with him because they enjoy power like he does.

Stone and his gang are what constitutes as high-class in District 2 - from the Upper Villages, higher slopes and mountainsides behind Mount Nadare, the center of the district - but even his gang looks shabby compared with their leader. Some of the non-Career girls at school whisper excitedly to each other about his good looks, but I think the omnipresent mocking grin and malicious light in his dark bluish-black eyes takes a lot away from any handsomeness. Dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt that's just tight enough to show off the lean, hard muscles of his torso, black pants that looked almost new, a slim belt with an expensive-looking silver buckle, and shiny black combat boots, Stone's very appearance shows his status and his pride in it. But this can only get him so far. Arrogance is a good angle to take in the Games, but it's not taken well here. It doesn't matter who Stone is the favorite boy of or the fact that he's rolling in money almost as much as a low-class Capitolian: those things will never garner our acceptance.

But then again, we don't need to accept him if he's soundly beaten all of us, and he's been doing fine at that.

Stone looks around at the sea of stony faces glaring his way, and he nonchalantly runs a hand lightly through his dark, perfectly combed-back hair. "Aw, what's the matter? Don't tell me you're all still upset that I beat you pathetic excuses for Careers into the dirt?"

He pulls a purple plastic lighter and a cigarette out of his pocket – according to him it's a "special" gift from Quille – and deftly lights it. He inhales a long, drawn-out drag of smoke, as he basks in the glory of every eye on him. His right-hand man, Marley Borough, steps up to Stone's side, offering his own smirk, though his looks a lot sleazier than his leader's.

"Hey, boss, here's a good one," he says, gesturing to me. "Maybe they're all ticked off because they thought Vadállat here was gonna volunteer this year!"

Stone withdraws the cigarette, which emanates harsh-smelling smoke that wrinkles the nose of all present (including Hadouken, who puts a paw over his nose in disgust), and laughs; a short, derisive chuckle that does not seem to leave his throat. "Yeah…" he says, lifting his head to look me in the eyes and flash a challenging smile. "Maybe they did."

I don't speak, just glare like everyone else as his gang gives sycophantic hoots of laughter. Stone's laughter and grin fade and his expression changes to a cold, hard one. "So what are you going to do, Rakhir?" he asks me, a taunting tone in his voice. "Refuse? Run? Give it all up? What, huh?"

"I think none of the above, Stone," I tell him, keeping my voice even and only letting a trace of how much I loathe him show through. "I think grinding your face into the floor sounds much more appealing."

"He'll do it, too," Reggie puts in. "You've got no chance, pretty boy."

Stone turns and glares at him, his intense dislike for the elder fighter made very obvious, the way I suspect he's been taught to do by Quille. Reggie and Head Peacekeeper Quille were rivals as young men almost the same way Stone and I are, and according to Reggie, Quille never liked that victors like Reggie got more respect than important authority figures like him and passed it on to his student.

"Oh, you think so, old man?" Stone hisses. "I heard you going on about how you pick the victors before they even reach the arena. Rakhir's the next great Career, hm? Well, I don't think so."

"Don't tell me you think it'll be you, Wystan?" It's not Reggie who speaks now, but an angry-looking fifteen-year-old boy that I've noticed it pretty good with an axe; I think his name is Serke, and he's from the Lower Villages like my gang and I, from the lower classes that live in the stone mining territories at the foot of Mount Nadare. "What makes you think you'd survive in the arena? Did you realize that if you're fighting in the Games no one cares who likes you? You'll have no influence there."

Stone's irritated glare turns to Serke. "Shut up, kid," he snarls, even though the boy's only a few years younger than him. "I don't think you want the Head Peacekeeper after you and your family for disrespect, do you?"

"Oh, is _that_ your big strategy for the Games, Stone?" drawls an older Career girl, one of Renny's acquaintances, named Kess. "I don't know if you knew this, and it may come as sort of a shock, but the other tributes won't care if you threaten to go whine to Quille if they come after you with big swords and spears."

Stone snaps at her, "You too, shut up! I think you should start caring about what I can do here, to all of _you_, even if I can only get rid of one of you in the arena."

"I'd like to see you try it," Fabron snorts.

"And I'd be happy to oblige," Stone says, gesturing to two of his gang members to move forward. Inwardly, I smile, knowing that my gang is different. They aren't obedient puppies who robotically follow the orders of their leader. They act on their own, most of the time without any instructions from me. And that's what they decide to do now.

Just as the two of Stone's gang members – a tanned, burly guy named Tudor Black that it's widely agreed has anger management issues, and a lean, not very clever boy named Joel Kummele - start to advance toward us, Leib shoots out from behind me with Arno and Fabron close behind, ready to attack.

Leib, his expression hard and unreadable but his fierce golden-brown eyes blazing, strikes at Joel with his knives. He's held a grudge against Joel even since he mugged one of Leib's brothers and left him bleeding in an alleyway for most of a night. Leib's slashing is fast and ruthless, but Joel is very quick with his hands. His thick, gray-black leather gloves, studded with numerous small, sharp spikes, flash out to try and hit Leib's hands, wrists, and forearms and knock his expert slices away. It's difficult to see who is winning, though, they are both fast and fierce fighters and I'd say they're evenly matched.

Arno and Fabron are having a slightly tougher time with Tudor, Stone's powerhouse. He's smaller than both me and Girvin, but he's still huge and strong, destructively so. A hard, disdainful smirk is spreading on his face as he takes huge swings with either his heavy club, which is wood enforced with metal, or his left fist, which is free. Arno is fighting furiously, slicing and stabbing with his scimitar, keeping Tudor occupied from the front as Fabron attacks from the back, trying unsuccessfully to lodge himself on Tudor's massive back, while in the meantime cutting at every area he can reach, only making smaller cuts, though, as he thinks it's tinier cuts that bring the sharpest pain of ordinary wounds. But even though my boys are skilled fighters and it's two on one, Tudor still manages to give them one hell of a hard time, flailing every limb and appendage on his body with hopes of slamming them into Arno and Fabron with the force of a dozen sledgehammers.

I narrow my eyes slightly, knowing what kind of damage Tudor can inflict with those blows; Joel as well, with his spiked gloves and deadly speed. I've seen Stone's gang in battle before, and I've seen firsthand the things they've done to those they defeat. Even if an opponent of theirs comes out on top, they usually don't look too good, to make a tremendous understatement. But my internal smile doesn't falter. Because I know what my gang is capable of as well. And I have faith in them to take Stone's lackeys down.

Beside me, Girvin grinds his teeth and clenches his fists, clearly itching to join his brother in battle. I remember him once mentioning that he'd like to fight Tudor on his own, if only once, and show him what real strength is. In fact, he seems to have made his mind up to charge into the fight, and he takes one determined step forward. I turn halfway to him and raise my hand to stop him. The look of surprise and disappointment on his round face, so like a little boy chastised when he thought he was doing good, brings a small smile to my face.

"Head in if you want to," I tell him quietly. "But I don't think they'll need you quite yet. Watch," I say, and gesture to the fighting pairs.

Leib has taken the upper hand in his fight. Joel's left arm is bleeding profusely from a long, relatively deep cut running down the inside of the arm, and well-placed kick from Leib has left his right wrist bruised and not as useable. His punches aren't coming as fast as before, and Leib is still going strong. In no less than a minute later, his powerful and flawlessly executed moves have knocked Joel flat on his back on the hard, rugged stone floor. Leib wastes no time; he is on top of Joel in a moment, pinning his opponent to the ground. Joel struggles angrily, but his light, thin frame is no match for Leib's strong, muscled body. Leib positions one of his knives at the base of Joel's throat, and he lowers the other to where the older boy's thigh and hip meet. "Give it up," he growls.

Joel looks furious, but he has no choice. It's one of the rules of the fight: If an opponent holds you immobile for more than ten seconds, you have lost. And the large knives at two of his most vulnerable areas don't leave Joel much room to argue either. With what looks like great effort, he relaxes his body, gives up the fight.

"I yield," he breathes, and it sounds like the short sound is being forcibly, painfully dragged out of him. Leib releases him and stands up, but not before getting another slash and kick to the ribs in as Joel tries to get up, knocking him back to the ground.

"That was for Ethon," he snarls, reminding Joel of what made Leib hate him.

Joel doesn't seem affected by it much. He quickly gets to his feet, still on guard, and slinks back over to where his gang waits, with disapproving faces. "Gutter trash," he hisses at Leib over his shoulder as he retreats. Leib stares after him, with a look in his eyes so fierce I'm almost surprised they don't burn holes in Joel's back.

Emboldened by Leib's victory, Arno and Fabron press harder in their attacks on Tudor. The big ox isn't giving them any leniency though. Angered by his friend's defeat, Tudor is fighting as ferociously as ever. All of us stand silently and watch, like the wolf pack lying in wait for one fighting dog to go down in a book that we love to badger Leib's eldest brother Beltrán into letting us borrow. But despite Tudor being a flailing tower of fury and brute strength, Arno and Fabron are starting to look like they might come out on top. A triumphant grin breaks onto my face when Fabron finally gets in some excellent hits to Tudor's head.

"Nice!" I hiss under my breath.

Girvin still looks like he thinks he should help. "Are you sure that'll finish him?" he asks me, with a note of doubtfulness in his voice I can tell is intentional. "It's enough to daze him a bit, but mostly it's just riling him up."

"Trust me, Girvin; Fabron and Arno know what they're doing." I assure him. "Again, go and try to help out if you want, but if I know those two, they've almost got the big oaf down for the count."

"Yeah," mutters Renny, chewing on his lip and watching the fight uncertainly. "Course they do. Because that bear'll be _so _easy to take down. Bet they come out without a scratch on 'em, too."

I frown at him. Out of all the gang, Renny is the most pessimistic and cynical, and out of all the gang, he's had the worst encounter with Tudor. About ten months ago, Tudor was angry that Renny had been on a winning streak at the prizefights – actually, he's angry at just about everything – and he decided that Renny must be cheating, because to his mind, that's how fighters raised in the Lower Villages of the district operate.

Like most people raised in the higher-class Upper Villages - which is populated by more weapons factories and Peacekeeper training facilities and, of course, the technicians from Mount Nadare, and less stone miners, though both regions of the district have all these things - he and the rest of Stone's gang believe that they're the better Careers, although it has been proven that Careers from the Lower Villages tend to do better in the Games. We might be one of the more prosperous districts, but the people of the Lower Villages don't exactly live the perfect, cushy life. There's more and fiercer fighting among the Lower Villages, where if you run into hard times, you're less likely to get help than in the Upper Villages, so whether you're well-off or not, here you're taught early on how to fend for yourself. Which is fine with me, it's better for the arena. But I digress.

Tudor took Marley and Joel to follow Renny home from a fairly successful night at the prizefighting arenas. For the record, he hadn't been cheating at all, just perfecting a new move he'd learned from a friend of his. There are so few rules in the prizefights - such as not severing limbs, cutting arteries, or breaking more than two bones – that it's nearly impossible to cheat without making it glaringly obvious. And though Renny's methods are, more often than not, questionable, he's a fair fighter when you come right down to it. But Tudor didn't seem to think so – he caught Renny behind a Peacekeeper training facility and attacked him. At three on one, caught off guard, and far from help, Renny didn't have a chance. Marley and Joel wrestled him down and held his arms behind his back, while Tudor beat the living hell out of him. He doesn't remember how long they beat him for, couldn't tell how long Tudor kept on punching him, one body-crushing blow after another. All we knew was one of the worst damage we'd seen done to one of our gang.

It had been pure luck when Leib and I had found him, a good while after Tudor and the rest had finished beating him, and in a moment of pure cruelty dislocated his right arm, and then dropped him to the ground and left him there. Leib had been walking with me back to his house, since it had been such a nice day and I didn't want to ruin it by going back to my own sorry excuse for a home, when I heard a somewhat familiar sound: A moan of pain. I wasn't sure if I should pay attention or not, but when Leib, being Leib, did not deliberate and ran straight off in the direction of the sound, I didn't have any choice but to follow him. I don't get affected much by scenes of blood, pain, or other general consequences of battle, but my stomach churned when I saw Renny lying there, his face contorted with pain and marked with bruises and swelling wounds, just like the rest of him. He didn't say anything as Leib and I carefully lifted him up and took him as fast as we could without hurting him more to a different destination than we'd planned – to Girvin and Fabron's house, to their mother, who worked as a nurse in Mount Nadare. She's the best at her work I've ever seen, and although by the next afternoon Renny was still in a good amount of pain, confined to a spare bed, and looked barely any better, both nurse and patient agreed that he was going to recover just fine.

When we visited him the following day, Daiza was confused. "Why'd they do this to him?" he'd said, his small fists clenched tight. "If they'd thought he was cheating, why didn't they do what everyone else does? Take it up with Reggie? Why'd they have to go and beat him up?"

"Because they're not like everyone else," I told him, my voice coming out rough with repressed anger. "At least, they like to convince themselves that they aren't."

"A Lower Villager…getting the better of Upper Villagers," Renny murmured, through the bandages that covered much of his face. "That's what they get so bent out of shape about. They just…can't stand the idea…that we can be better than them. I was beating a lot of them…and they couldn't take that. They wanted to… to teach me some kind of a lesson. To show that they were better…than me…and the rest of us."

"Class warfare." Fabron, always the slightly scholarly one, defined our problem. "That's what it is. Class warfare."

"What?" Daiza said, stunned with the reality of our situation. "And the other districts think we have it easy because…?"

"They don't know us, and we don't know them, and nobody really cares to remedy that," I informed him simply.

"And it doesn't matter if we do," Leib said firmly, his hand tightly holding the sheathed knife on his belt. "With the circumstances being what they are, there's no reason for us to care about the rest of the nation, we just need to focus on taking care of ourselves."

And despite Renny's doubt now, since after his experience with Tudor he regards him as almost impossibly strong, I think my boys are doing just that. They know Tudor's a raging beast in battle, but between Arno's skill and Fabron's sharp mind, I believe they'll figure out some way to beat him. In fact, I think they've already got it.

Arno is slashing relentlessly with his scimitar, but Fabron is strangely less active with his glaive, and operating more around the sides than the back. They might have won the fight by now, if not for the rule against too-severe injuries. But if Tudor is in agony now from the multitude of cuts on his body, he sure doesn't show it, as expected of a top Career wannabe. But I can see he's running out of steam. And as I notice what Arno and Fabron are trying to do, I see exactly how he's going to crack.

Tudor doesn't realize it, but Arno and Fabron have been slowly but surely pushing him backwards. This wouldn't be a problem normally, but they're maneuvering him towards the locker pit, where we all keep our weapons, a change of clothes, and other miscellaneous possessions. It's the worst kept of all the areas of the prizefighting grounds, and it's full of hard, jagged stone that would be hell to take an unfortunate fall on normally. But for some very convenient reason, the stairway that leads down into the pit is unusually long and very steep. If someone were to crash down those stairs and land hard on the stone…Well, I think I'm about to see what would happen.

Arno continues persistently attacking, the blade flashing in the bluish-white electric light of the grounds but not seeming to do much damage if you look carefully, moving the unsuspecting Tudor towards the edge of the pit. Any other trained Career would probably have noticed this and torn apart their plan by now, but Arno and Fabron are playing on Tudor's tendency to go berserk and beyond reason in a fight. He's so fired up; he can't tell he's being led into a trap.

I look and see Stone grimacing. He's seen through the plan, too, and I can tell he wants to scream his lungs out at Tudor right now, but can't because it's illegal to sabotage a fight. Hey, that's what you get if you're only going for power and skill in your outfit, instead of a balance of both like mine. Stone only keeps Tudor around for his strength, but in many ways, he's more of a hindrance than a help.

Tudor's only a couple of steps away from the pit – so close that if he goes back any more on his own even he'll figure it out – and so the boys make their move. Fabron, who was making himself virtually unnoticed throughout this, dashes in behind Tudor just as he takes a step back and goes in low, hitting the back of his long legs and knocking him off balance. A split second later, Arno charges, throwing himself at Tudor and slamming shoulder-first right into his abdomen. Tudor's huge, but he's also been caught by surprise and off balance, and Arno's a pretty strong guy despite his average looks, so his final attack sends Tudor down hard, his body just barely scraping the first few stairs, landing hard on the middle ones with a loud crack that makes a few spectators wince, and finally tumbling down and landing on the rugged stone at the bottom.

When he doesn't come back up, raging and howling, Stone gives a yell of frustration and runs to check on his Goliath. I don't concern myself with him right away, just assess the damage of my own gang as Arno and Fabron come back, beaten and bruised, but triumphant and grinning. Arno has taken the brunt of the battle, but he was too quick for most of the punches, and so a purplish-blue black eye and a badly split lip are about the worst of the damage. Fabron's back and shoulders were hurt when he went under Tudor's legs, but aside from that and a few scrapes and bruises, he's fine. They're both going to feel it all tomorrow morning, though.

Stone comes back up the stairs, fuming at the defeat of his most powerful lackey. "Boss!" calls the youngest member of his gang, a thirteen-year-old named Tobin who's on the smaller side and not a very good fighter, but very clever and all around brilliant, very good at formulating plans for battles he can see coming. To me, he always looks like he's thinking hard, as if playing some kind of intense game. From what I've seen of him, he's a pretty nice kid who Stone only lets hang around him because of his smarts, which his gang is severely lacking in, though he'd never admit it. Tobin only got mixed up with Stone because he was being tormented by other, stronger kids his age, the Career type, and he was seeking either a way to fit in so there'd be no reason to pick on him or else a method of protection so everyone would be too scared to pick on him. Stone saw him try to talk his way out of a beating from the kids who'd been bullying him, and thought that he might be of some use to him, so he went and scared the other bullies away from Tobin, and then offered the kid a place in his gang. Ironically, Tobin accepted an offer to join with the guy who goes to great lengths to be the biggest bully in the playground (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally, and I should know) because he hated the other ones for tormenting him. I don't understand how he can't see that Stone is of the same mold. Maybe he's like Daiza without the spirit – a scrawny outcast in need of some help, and idolizing the one who gives it. Daiza found me, and Tobin ended up with Stone.

"Boss!" Tobin cries, with a look of worry on his face. "Is he gonna be okay, boss? He didn't land on his neck, did he? They didn't kill him, did they, boss?"

"Relax!" snaps Stone harshly, and Tobin instantly shuts his mouth. "He cracked his head, all right? Just knocked out, is all! No need to get so worked up!"

His gang quiets down, having no wish to evoke their boss's anger further. Stone glares furiously at our gang, his blazing dark eyes trained on my face. I work to maintain a calm but determined expression, the kind of 'camera face' Careers are taught to do for the Games. My hatred of him I can hold inside until the time is right to unleash it in a fight, but Stone doesn't care for restraint of his emotions. His unbridled fury at being shown up by a gang of Lower Villagers, after years of bragging that his gang and Upper Villagers in general are superior, is plain for all to see. Looking around him and seeing everyone's reactions to his humiliation only fuel the flames. Nearly everyone is watching with suppressed laughter, small smiles, or a knowing look in their eyes. Reggie, who isn't one for subtlety, is having a victory drink and cackling away, happy that he's got something to brag about to Quille at the tiny bar our district has – that the gang he's always favored just got the best of a gang backed up by Quille. Even Hadouken has a vaguely taunting expression on his aging canine face.

An animalistic growl comes from Stone's throat, and he yells, "Enough!", silencing everyone but Reggie, who smirks and gives one last chuckle before returning to his liquor. Striding forward with an expression that promises payback, Stone snarls, "Think you're so great, Vadállat? I think you should stop letting your gang fight for you, and let me show you just how a real warrior fights!"

"All right then, Stone, I'd be happy to help teach a lesson," I say coolly, leaving my encircling gang to face Stone, matching his icy glare with my own steady, burning gaze. The tension and anticipation of our audience is almost palpable in the air, as they await the outcome of the biggest fight of the year – the battle that will decide who wins the honor of competing in the Hunger Games; between two old rivals, no less.

Reggie gives a grin that exposes his yellowing teeth, marred by alcohol and a matter of little importance to him. "Excellent," he says, relishing the impending fight as much as everyone else. "Get in the ring, boys, that'll make it official." He turns to Leib, Arno, and Fabron. "You boys' fights may not have been official, but I'll still give you a little something for it, just 'cause I like the lot of ya. Come here, we'll discuss it…" The three go up to Reggie with eager smirks on their faces, but no one, least of all Stone and I, is paying them any attention. We go to the center of the grounds, and enter from opposite sides into the biggest ring in the place. Plenty of empty space to battle it out, a high cement floor emblazoned with the seal of the district, and no boundaries to keep us from getting knocked off to a nasty landing. In other words, a fine place for a good fight.

We stand on opposite sides of the ring, for any opening words to be given by either combatant. I don't intend to say anything; I'm dying to finally get this final fight under way. But Stone apparently wants to get in a bit more boasting before the fists start flying.

"So, Vadállat, we have a fair fight. No weapons…save for our own bodies," he declares, showing off his fists, clad in fine black leather fingerless gloves. "Now," he says, lowering his fists, his voice, and part of his arrogant demeanor. "I'd like to ask you something, Vadállat. My gang and I…We are the stronger, better warriors. We were _raised _to be better. I can't speak for the rest of them, but for me, at least, my entire life has been devoted to it."

"That's because you're a megalomaniacal, power-hungry prick," Arno snaps, holding an ice pack retrieved from the area's infirmary over his black eye. His crude but accurate statement evokes chattering and shouts of assent from our Lower-Village audience. Stone shoots him an ugly look, and then turns back to me.

"Upper Villagers like us are superior to you Lower Villagers by birth. And we work to prove it to you over and over again," Stone says.

_And we prove you wrong, _I think. _Over and over again._ Renny backs up my thoughts. "I think our rough raised Careers are far better than your well-bred shit."

Stone tries to ignore Renny, but can't resist giving him a poisonous glare. "So I have to ask you this," he says, his eyes narrowing. "How is it that your gang of lowlifes beat mine?"

"Because _your _gang of lowlifes couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag?" Fabron offers, before resuming a whispered conversation with Renny, which, judging from his eyes and hand gestures, involves Renny introducing him to his friend Kess, and Fabron possibly getting a back massage out of it for his sore back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Fabron knows full well there are medications and hot pads for an aching body in the infirmary, but he just wants to take advantage of his situation. Stone shoots him a glare identical to the one he gave Arno, and then continues.

"What is it about you, Vadállat? You're from the lowest of the low here, and you've piled together a gang of messes just like you. A bunch like you shouldn't be able to get anywhere in a place where the strong prevail. Strength, you see, is in your blood, and we Upper Villagers – "

"Blood?" I interject. "Where did you get that from? What difference does your class or your _blood _make? The way I see it, blood is blood, and I'm about to spill yours all over the floor, Wystan."

Stone's glare turns icy and unforgiving. "All right then. I see how it is. You think your class makes no difference. That you can become powerful whatever your heritage or how you were raised. You think you can prove me wrong, that you can prove the whole Upper Village wrong. But wait. You think it depends on the _person,_ don't you?"

I shrug. "Aren't all Careers trained to be the best?"

"Okay," he says, sounding somewhat thoughtful. "I've got an idea," he declares.

"Well, great for you," I say mock-cheerfully. "What do you want, a medal?"

Stone goes on, too happy with himself to be stung by my insult. "I think," he says, "we should raise the stakes of this fight a bit."

"Really?" I say, making it sound like this is of little interest to me, when actually I'm a little surprised and more than a little curious about it. This is already the biggest fight of the year, where the winner gets the prize of going to the Capitol to compete in the Games. There is no higher honor than that. "How so?" I ask.

"Care to make a personal wager, Vadállat?" he says, with an evil grin. "If you win, I'll admit, once and for all, that I'm wrong and Lower Villagers like you are capable of being great Careers, and I will never say another word against them. But if I win – "

"Let me guess," I say dryly. "I have to admit Upper Villagers are superior and you're the supreme god of all Careers?"

"I _was _thinking of making you do that, but how uncreative would that have been?" He licks his lips and looks positively, disgustingly devious. "If I win…You have to tell me how you got that scar!"

A collective intake of breath through clenched teeth comes from my gang, and I narrow my eyes, feeling very conscious of the long, prominent knife scar that runs from the middle of my forehead over my right eye to the end of my cheek. I have never told anyone how I got the scar, not even my gang, and certainly not my mother; because doing so would be revealing my darkest secret. Not only that, but the scar is useful for being a Career as well. People here wonder where and how I got it, and it's actually quite a debated topic among the people who think I can't hear them, and people in the Games will see it and know that I'm a fighter that can take anything, and wonder, perhaps, what happened to the other guy who gave me the scar. My eyes narrow at the memory. Even though I had been no older than eight years old, I can still recall perfectly the agony of my father's blade tearing through my face…and I can also recall how his still, paling, bloodied body looked after I retaliated. It almost brings a grim smile to my face to remember how he looked when I took the knife and turned it back against him, how I finally got back at him for all the thousands of times he'd caused me pain. It hadn't even been on purpose, at least not completely. Even when everything else is so clear, I can't even remember what I was thinking at the actual moment. All I can call up is just a blur of rage, hate, and red haze. I'm not sure how much of my father's death was an accident, but I did my best to make it look that way afterwards, and it worked. One thing I know for sure is, I never regretted it.

"So, Vadállat? Ready to wager a little more than money or position on a fight?" Stone challenges.

I take about a moment to deliberate. I know I can beat him, I'm certain of it, but on the off chance I lose…I'd have no choice. I can't back out, and I'd have to divulge the truth of my father's death for the entire district to hear. Not only would my ambitions of becoming a victor be crushed, but my whole life along with it. It's a dangerous risk to run, but…

No. I won't let Stone win. No matter what the cost, I'll beat him. I've already chosen to fight in the Games, where the cost of losing is my life. This isn't too far off. I take a battle stance. "Ready when you are, Wystan," I say, forcing more confidence than usual into my voice and assuming my usual combat stance. My acceptance is met with a round of appreciative whoops from the audience, whether they're rooting for Stone or me.

Stone smirks, and raises his own fists. "That's what I like to hear," he says, then wastes no time in dashing straight for me. I dodge his lunge, and as he's spinning around to face me, I slam the first punch of the battle into his chest. The brutal blow would have knocked anyone but Stone breathless, but he's trained for this too. He's not all just talk, he really is strong. He recovers quickly and comes out fighting, in a torrent of quick blows that I start off blocking and parrying. But after a bit I start truly fighting myself. I knock aside his blows and send my own flying into his body, in a barrage of powerful fists and vicious kicks. Stone fights in a cold and calculating manner, always trying to search out weak points and exploit them. But his relatively logical approach to battle is no match for the style of a true Career: Well-honed ferocity and a complete lack of mercy, combined with the fighter's own techniques and preferences.

In the storm of savage blows and well-executed martial arts, it's hard to figure out when you can get a truly devastating strike in, one that will turn the tide of the fight in your favor. But after about five minutes of battle, I spot an opening. At one point of the fight, I delivered a few good solid kicks to Stone's ribs and side, and judging from the way he seems to be lagging a little on that side, I may have done more damage than I originally thought. As I've broken a few ribs before – both mine and others' – I think I can recognize an injury that's definitely an advantage to me. Stone's been doing a good job of not showing the pain he definitely must be feeling, as he's been trained to do, but it's not enough. I allow a smile to slowly spread on my face. There, let Stone try and figure out what I've got in mind for him.

Stone aims a fierce punch at my throat, but I catch his wrist and jerk it viciously to the side, throwing him off balance. He tries to recover, but he's not fast enough to avoid a solid kick, with all my power behind it, directly into his ribs. I am rewarded with a shout of pain and a rush of satisfaction flows through me, as I take the opportunity to launch a hail of ferocious blows to his chest without any letup. He's trying to retaliate, but a few strong strikes – the kind meant to inflict injury to the bone – to his arms and legs slow that. I know that I'm pushing it, that I may be closer to breaking the rules than is good for me. But I don't want to stop, I want to keep going, I want to keep fighting. For a moment, I forget where I am and what my limits are; almost like I've fast-forwarded my mind into the Games. Stone is my enemy, I have to keep on him until he can't fight anymore, can't try to destroy my dreams with his arrogant wishes anymore. Stone's looking a lot less prideful and confident now, I think sadistically, with his body bruised and bleeding. His eyes are blazing with agonized rage, and he's trying his best to get himself out of this predicament and reenter true combat instead of being pummeled relentlessly, but he can't. It might be just my fired-up imagination, but he's starting to look scared; and this sends another fierce rush of satisfaction through my veins and gives even more strength to my attacks…I'm so blinded by my fervor for battle that I don't know what I might have done to Stone – not that it matters – if I hadn't been broken out of the confining haze.

"Rakhir!" Daiza's call stands out from the audience, who roars with approval for their apparent winner and drown out the few who must be yowling for Stone. It surprises me enough that I pause for a moment. I worry Stone might take advantage of this, but I've come back to my senses enough to realize that I'm practically on top of him, with my knees digging into his thighs and my fists pressing hard into his shoulders. Funny; I don't quite remember jumping on top of him. Even if he had decided to try and get up, he couldn't, but I don't think he will just yet. He looks stunned and dazed, the worst of the cuts on his face – a long gash across his forehead, probably caused by the studded silver wristbands I'm wearing – slowly trickles bright crimson blood down his temple. I've fought him before, but he's never seen me so battle-crazed and the look of surprise in his eyes proves his feelings. I'm aware of the change in the crowd. They are tense as they wonder what I'll do next.

"Relax, Rakhir!" Daiza calls. "I know you want to be a tribute, but don't go so far just yet! You've practically won already! Everyone already knows you're the best!" A collective shout of assent backs up the kid's words, and he breaks into a gratified smile. "Besides," he goes on, the smile morphing into a smirk. "While you're away winning the Games, _we'll _take care of them for you. If he doesn't keep his side of the bargain willingly, we'll make sure he sticks to it. And we'll make sure everyone knows that Lower Villagers like us are given the credit we earn!"

To illustrate his point, he pulls off some of the martial arts moves the gang has taught him, which brings a mixed reaction of laughter and smiles and whoops that are only half-meant as encouragement. I try to hold back a small smile of my own. Daiza means his words and his actions seriously, but he's hardly ever taken seriously. I guess it comes from being a tough but scrawny little guy with a fiery spirit. Nevertheless, he's liked by most of the Lower Village (while the Upper Villagers either jeer at him or pay him no attention at all).

One person, however, is not happy at all about everyone's actions. Stone has gotten over his surprise and is struggling unsuccessfully to unseat me. His pitiful attempts to resume combat appear so comical that I can't hold back a chuckle. "Give it up, Wystan. You should have realized by now – I've beat you because that's how it should be. You weren't made for the Games, I was always meant to take this spot. I've earned it now, and now _you are finished._"

Stone's face contorts into a look of pure hatred as his eyes burn with fury. "It's not…over yet…" he grinds out through clenched teeth.

Reggie guffaws as though this is the joke of the century. "Actually, it is, pretty boy," he says, with obvious satisfaction in his voice. "Rakhir had you immobile for well over ten seconds. Count yourself lucky he just did that, or else the fight'd still be on and he'd still be beating the crap out of you." Reggie grins. "The look on your face, boy…" He starts laughing again, full of glee at Stone's misery.

For a moment, Stone looks stunned, in disbelief; as if he hadn't thought it possible for him to fail, then his fury rebounds fiercely. "No…" he snarls. "No!" And the next second I feel a sharp, unexpected pain sear my calf.

I reflexively jump back, and Stone scrambles up from the floor, which is now spattered with drops of both our blood, and he wildly brandishes a knife he must have had hidden and ready in his clothes. The blade is dripping bright red, and the same stuff is slowly soaking through my pants leg from the cut. _All right, _I assess the situation. _He's got a knife, I've got nothing. But I can still take him._ To be honest, I'm not that shocked or nervous. I should have known Stone would pull some dirty trick like this, and maybe I'm caught unprepared. Maybe I'm a bit outmatched. Maybe the crazed, wild look in Stone's eyes unnerves me a little. But according to the undisputable code of our district, I am this year's male tribute; the reward for my many victories. And a tribute has to fight his way through anything anyone can throw at him.

I waste no time, I don't want Stone to be able to get the upper hand; though in this insane state he's in, I doubt his mind will work normally and formulate any sort of plan. I charge at him intending to take him down again, and his reaction is animalistic, howling with rage and aimlessly slashing the air with the knife, the blood from his cut forehead running profusely from the wound and streaming down his flushed face. If he makes contact with me, it'll be completely by chance. I, however, am entirely in control of myself. I don't hesitate; it will only take one attack, a final exploitation of a weakness I discovered in my very first fight with Stone Wystan. I pull back my fist and summon up all my power into one vicious punch to Stone's jaw.

Stone's glass jaw is his literal downfall. The crack echoes throughout the stone room, even louder because of the rounded ceiling, and I see his jawbone move under his flesh, snapping out of its socket. On a whim, I deliver a hard kick into his ribs, and it's satisfying beyond belief; hearing a couple more cracks of bone as my boot hits his chest, sending him crashing into the floor where his skull slams into the stone, knocking him out cold.

Tobin and Marley rush forward toward their defeated leader. "Boss!" Tobin cries, reaching him first and shaking his shoulders. "Boss, get up!" Marley roughly pushes him out of the way and examines Stone, swearing under his breath when he deems him okay, but unconscious. "Help me with this," he hisses at Tobin as he loops one of his arms under one of Stone's. Tobin follows the example and does the same. Marley turns and yells at Joel to take Tudor. Joel takes one look at Tudor's massive form in comparison to his rail-thin one and shouts angrily at another gang of Upper Villagers to come and help him, which they hasten to do, not wanting to cause trouble for themselves with Stone's gang despite their defeat. Together they take the fallen members of their gang and quickly vacate the premises to hide from their humiliation.

My own gang is bursting with pride and excitement. They crowd around me with unending praise and congratulations, as do many other Lower Villagers, and some of the more decent-mannered Upper Villagers too. It's only polite to acknowledge the triumph of the one Career out of so many that was able to fight his way through the year for the volunteer position. Some of them bring over wet cloths, ice packs, bandaging, and other necessities for my wounds and bruises. But I don't feel I need it. My body may ache and sting, but that pain will fade, and I'm not so banged up that I won't be fine by the time I'm in the arena in a few days. I know I'm cut and battered all over, but I feel just fine. I only need to see Arno shouting, "You did it, man, you freakin' did it!" and pumping his fist in the air, Reggie cackling like a madman with pleasure and downing gulps of alcohol like there was no tomorrow, Girvin letting out primal victory whoops and pounding his chest, Renny explaining to his friends how he knew all along that I'd get this far, despite all the times he'd declared he hadn't believed it, even Hadouken, the old, irritable thing, hoarsely howling his lungs out. And Daiza, especially Daiza; hopping and dashing around like a squirrel, punching the air vigorously and yelling nearly unintelligible words of excitement.

This is all I need to see to send revitalizing happiness rushing through me. They are what I'm fighting for, and it gives me an extra burst of strength knowing that the whole of my district will be behind me. How, I wonder, do the other tributes, from other districts, not understand it? Why can't they get that to be a Career is not an arrogant or brutish thing to do? Is it so hard to see that we are not monsters? That what we do is not only for the pleasure of the kill, but rather for the ones we leave behind to take our chances and put our skills and strength to the ultimate test, in the Hunger Games? The winnings of the Games will support a family, but I have none to speak of; save for my mother, who is too despicable for words in my opinion, and doesn't count. No, my real family is the gang I plunge into battle with, roam the streets with, brag with, joke and laugh with, truly live with: Arno Ferox, Fabron Saxum, Girvin Pugni, Leib Seco, Renny Ossa, and Daiza Javelin. In these Games, I will fight to bring them the lives they deserve to have, because although our district is reputed to be one of the wealthiest, pampered by the Capitol, quite of the few of the Lower Villagers' lives stray far from that reputation, including me and all of my gang. I've resolved to change that for a long time, and now I finally get my chance to take action after all my talk.

All of a sudden, though, I realize that the cheering has died down somewhat, and I look to see that the crowd has parted to let a girl a couple years younger than me through, followed by a small crowd of her own. I stand up straighter and look at her closely. I recognize her; she's a Career like me. Her name is Ühel Dragul, and I remember seeing her training with the other girls. She's like an icy windstorm, a particularly vicious thing. You'd never see it by looking at her, or even by seeing her fight. Ühel is always cold and calculating, and it is reflected in every movement and word of hers. I've seen this kind of meeting before, on reaping day. If my guess is correct, she's the one who's fought her way into the position of girl's tribute for this year.

Her dark blue eyes regard me with distaste. "Hello, Vadállat," she says curtly. "I see you've been busy. Volunteer for this year, I suppose?"

"That's right," I say, with a distinct undertone of venom to my voice. "And I suppose you're the other one?"

She nods. "Your fellow Career." Her eyes move slowly over me, sizing me up. "Well, I suppose you're competent enough. About as strong as expected of a tribute from Two. A bit husky, but maybe you're fast. I've seen you have a decent style of sword fighting. All in all, fine for a well-trained Career."

"Who are you, Claudius Templesmith?" I say irritably. "You don't see me going over every quality of yours."

"Yeah, save it for the Games, darling," Reggie says, smirking.

Ühel's eyes narrow at him. "I've heard _you_ going on and on about how Rakhir Vadállat is our district's next great victor. The greatest Career ever to emerge from the hopeful masses of District Two, that's Rakhir, is it?"

Reggie's smirk falters, and he looks at Ühel curiously. "What are you getting at, miss?" he demands gruffly, accompanied by an equally gruff sound from Hadouken that sounds somewhere between a snort and a growl.

"Oh, nothing important," says Ühel airily. "I just remembered the last Careers that you went on about like that, is all. Such a shame it would be if, after all that wasted breath, brilliant Vadállat here turned out to be just like Ember and Blake Valaki."

Her words are flippant, but the meaning behind them is not. I grind my teeth in anger, as I hear the collective intake of breath from the audience, who all remember the district's greatest failure. It's particularly cruel to me, because nearly everyone knows Ember and Blake, the Valaki twins, were my trainers and best friends before I had officially formed my gang. The brother and sister team were the most admired in the district, the strongest and most skilled of all the Careers-in-training; and as Ühel reminds us, everyone talked excitedly about their new great victors, especially Reggie, the biggest windbag of them all. But nine years ago, both of them were reaped into the Games. Neither had really wanted to compete against each other.

They had always wanted to go as tributes, of course, but not with each other. As for how it happened, the system was not as fine-tuned as it is now. Mistakes could be made, and as in the case of the Valaki twins, they could often prove fatal. The code of the district had ensnared them, and they were trapped. They had no choice but to go to the Games, and as expected of them, they performed above and beyond in their battles. Before they went, their last time speaking to me, they told me that they would not let their family ties prevent them from being the tributes they were always meant to be. They implied that they had understood that one of them would be lost in the Games and only one would come back. Perhaps, I thought, they had decided among themselves what to do. But whether they had a solid plan or not, their Games did not turn out the way anyone expected or wanted them to. By a cruel trick of the Gamemakers to ensure a dramatic finale or just by pure horrible luck, Ember and Blake were left as the last two tributes standing, forced to fight. We didn't like it very much, but we accepted that it was what they had to do. But Ember and Blake didn't. Instead, they disregarded every existent rule of the Hunger Games, and turned what could have been a monumental final battle into the greatest failure in the Games that ever came from District Two.

I send my fiercest glare at Ühel, who is pretending to examine her nails and doing a very good job of feigning unawareness of the weight of her words. But she knows exactly what she's said. Her uncaring words, the implication that I, after all my training and effort, will turn out as nothing more than a failure, forgettable and unworthy, not to mention dead, turns the blood to flame in my veins. Does she think for a second that I will turn my back on everything I've lived for, ever since I was a child? Does she think I'd let everybody that has held their faith in me down, whether I did it like the Valaki twins or not? Well, if she does…

"You're _dead _wrong, Dragul," I hiss at her, and she raises her head and stares into my face. Her expression is bland, but her eyes are alight with malice. Everyone, including me, knows that this girl is not one to be messed with, and she knows it too. It's no mistake she's the one to volunteer this year, I can see that. She'll be strong competition, no doubt, with her steel-trap mind always working like it is now. She is trying to play mind games with me before the Games have even begun, before the reapings, even. I'm almost certain this is the way she will play her Games out, quietly, logically, always plotting against us and trying her hardest to be one step ahead of the rest of the Career pack. She's definitely a sharp one, one to look out for. But I know how to deal with her kind. I have before. And I certainly will again.

"Oh? I'm wrong, am I?" She speaks lightly, but there is venom in her voice. She narrows those dark blue eyes, with the machinations of her mind working just behind them. "Well, we'll just see, won't we?" She turns and begins to saunter off. "Good luck, Rakhir," she says over her shoulder.

I pause for a moment, and then call after her. "And may the odds be ever in your favor, Ühel."

**~0~**

**Well, that chapter turned out longer than I thought. Anyhow…Musical themes!**

**The theme of Rakhir's gang is 'Fighting', the battle theme from Final Fantasy VII, and this is also the theme of Leib and Joel's and Arno, Fabron, and Tudor's fights.**

**The theme of Stone and his gang is the Turks' Theme, also from Final Fantasy VII. That music is badass. **

**Stone: Yeah, makes me feel boss!**

**Stone's Gang: *fist pump* Yeah, boss!**

**The theme of Stone and Rakhir and Stone's fight is 'Those Who Fight Further', again, from Final Fantasy VII.**

**The theme of the Lower Village is 'Mining Town', and the theme of the Upper Village is the 'Shinra Corporation Theme', both from Final Fantasy VII. Come to think of it, Shinra's theme would also fit very well with President Snow…**

**I own none of this music, credit and copyright goes to their **_**amazing**_** composer: Nobuo Uematsu. Ah, Uematsu-san is truly gifted, to create all the incredible pieces of music from the Final Fantasy games for the world to enjoy!**

**I thought I'd give the meanings of the characters' names, so…here goes.**

**-Tirion's name is made up, like Rakhir's, but his last name, Sagitto, is Latin for 'I shoot arrows.' A hunter's name…Subtle, no?**

**-Kaia's name, based on my Google searching, has several meanings, but the most common is 'from the earth.' **

**-Rakhir is a made-up name, but his last name, Vadállat, means 'beast' in Hungarian. **

**-Arno means 'eagle.' His last name, Ferox, means 'warlike' or 'arrogant' in Latin.**

**-Girvin means 'small rough one.' His last name, Pugni, means 'battle' or 'fist' in Latin.**

**-Fabron means 'blacksmith.' His last name, Saxum, means 'rock.'**

**-Leib means 'lion.' His last name, Seco, means 'cut', 'carve', etc. His brothers' names, Beltrán and Ethon, mean 'bright raven' and 'fiery eagle', respectively.**

**-Renny means 'small but mighty.' His last name, Ossa, means 'bones' in Latin.**

**-Daiza Javelin is a name I made up. No meaning.**

**-The meaning of Stone's name should be obvious, and his last name, Wystan, means 'battle stone.'**

**-Marley and Joel are named after cigarette brands. What? Bad guys = named after bad things. Tudor's name is derived from the word 'tüdő', meaning 'lung.' Don't judge me for the reasoning behind their names. And as for young Tobin…There's a subtle hint in the chapter as to his name. A batch of virtual chocolate chip cookies to the reviewer who figures it out!**

**-Mount Nadare is the Nut from Mockingjay. Nadare means 'avalanche' in Japanese, and if you've read Mockingjay, you'll definitely know why it's called that. *wink* **

**-The name Reggie means 'king,' and his last name is derived loosely from the Hungarian word 'király', also meaning 'king,' referring to his status as a victor. And as for Hadouken…Okay, do I even need to explain him? **

**-Ühel Dragul…First off, let me make one thing clear; because I know somebody was thinking it. (I know my spellcheck was.) I did NOT name Ühel after Dracula. Ühel means 'death' in Mongolian, according to Wiktionary. Her last name, Dragul, is derived from the Slovene word 'dragulj' meaning jewel. So Ühel Dragul means 'death jewel.' **

**And so ends chapter five. Next chapter, we're off to District Eleven to meet two more tributes. After them, we're headed to the Capitol for the Hunger Games to begin!**

**~0~**


	6. Golden Fields

**Angelo's POV**

Deep golden sunlight breaks through the shadows of the leaves as I fly through the trees. The novelty of leaping from branch to branch and feeling the wind rush against me will never wear off. Beside me, Sora is flying too, able to race from even slimmer branches than I can. It's just the beginning of the sunrise, and this is a rare thing. Everyone's sleeping in on reaping day, so there's no one to catch us or tell us to quit playing around and get back to work. No, today, Sora and I have the orchards to ourselves. Sora is smiling; her gray-green eyes alight with happiness. My closest companion looks like she feels the same way I do, that if there is such a thing as perfection in our district, this must be it.

The branches we are leaping from are laden with unnatural amounts of succulent fruit, and are unnaturally tall and grand, having been genetically altered by the Capitol's scientists to increase food production for them. But though it usually means more work for us, right now all it means is more room for us to enjoy ourselves. I'm pretty tempted to take a bit more of the fruit, but if I take any more than I've already gotten, a Peacekeeper might notice that I'm taken something, and I have enough scars from the lash of their whips slicing through my back, as does Sora. Most of the time, Sora and I are too smart for them, but they have still caught us more times than I care to admit. The both of us are marked rule-breakers, a pair to keep under close watch; I hear the Peacekeepers growl to one another.

But all of them are probably sleeping in as well, and I'm almost certain we're alone, just the way we like it. Between working in the orchards when they're crowded with other workers, laden down with our loads of fruit that make it a little more difficult to make one's way from branch to branch, and being stuck in our rooms at the community home which we share with at least three other kids, moments of solitude like this are the gems of our lives: very rare, and very precious.

As I take a particularly wide jump, I glance down at the ground, so far below me. When you first start, as a young child, this is what the other workers tell you that you should never do. It's frightening to think of losing your footing and having so far to fall to the hard earth below, but I've worked in these orchards for years, ever since I was nine. I'm used to every aspect of my work, especially the height. Rather than being apprehensive, Sora and I take pride in the fact that I can fly through these trees, at dizzying heights, with perfect skill and balance. It only takes practice, we tell the new ones when they ask how we do it so well.

As we pass a certain bunch of trees where we know the mockingjays nest, Sora's lips part and she lets out a soft, sweet little song she knows the birds love best. All the mockingjays favor Sora's voice, and it's the youngest of them that opens its beak and returns the melody. She has the most angelic voice, and I'm the one named Angelo. The morning sun beckons to the birds, which always seem happy despite the attitudes of the humans around them unless they are threatened, and with chirpy high-pitched calls to one another, they spread their wings and take to the air, filling the air with their song. The early air is heavy with the lovely aroma of dew-covered fruit and leaves, and the wind is gentle, enough to blow our hair around but not enough to affect the course of our jumps. The sunrise is beautiful, the lush reds and pinks melding with the pale yellows and brilliant gold. Add that to the fact that I'm alone with Sora, and the moment had been made in my mind officially idyllic.

Sora…Sora and my relationship is complicated. We've always been close, since before both of us ended up in District Eleven's community home. But as we've grown together, our feelings have deepened and matured as we have. It's rather confusing, though; I'm puzzled as to whether we're officially boyfriend and girlfriend yet, because both of us know how the other feels, and we show it, but we've never actually said it, out loud. Never once have either of us said 'I love you,' which to me is the one thing that what will make it official, irrevocable. Not even the kisses we've shared have prodded us to admit it to each other. It makes for a very awkward situation that both of us would like to banish from our thoughts (things are going decently, so why add change to the balance?) and yet at the same time we want to embrace it, dwell on it, take the time with each other to untangle it. At least, to us it's awkward. To everyone else, Angelo Tenshi and Sora Fielding are the perfect match for each other. I certainly can't ignore my deep affection for her, that surges up in me anew every time I look at her. Sora, so beautiful and strong; high-spirited and outspoken much of the time, but when she can let down her guard and show her real self, so gentle and sweet. A small smile creeps onto my face as a mockingjay joins her on a long jump and flits around her head when she stops on the branch, twittering away and making her laugh. What's not to love about her? And if I have these kinds of thoughts about our moments together, who knows what she thinks of me?

I grin, still immersed in our moment, and leap from branch to branch to her tree. She smirks and leaps to the next branch. I leap one closer, she leaps one further. Finally, Sora just takes off, with me in hot pursuit, and we fly through the trees as though we were born for it, as mockingjays are born to soar through the sky. And for a while the playful chase and evasion goes on, with the mockingjays soaring around us, raising their voices in a melody than bears an uncanny resemblance to laughter. Finally, I end it when I catch up to Sora and wrap my arms around her waist.

"Got you," I say, and she laughs.

"Well, now what will you do with me?" she asks.

"Show you something special," I murmur, a sudden thought striking me, and I release Sora and start climbing farther and higher. The branches are just starting to become dangerously slim, but we've reached the end of this particular orchard, and we can pull back the branches and look out onto the sky.

"Ah!" Sora lets out a gasp of amazement. I grin, knowing it's a spectacle she's never seen quite like this before. The sunrise over the endless orchards and fields of the district is an amazing sight, especially this high up and with such a clear view. The quickly lightening sky is at that point where it can't decide whether it's gold or blue or something in-between. The clouds are a mix of light magentas and yellows. And the incredible painting of the morning sky is centered on the brilliantly shining golden-red sun, which spreads light over the entire district. It's so beautiful, it's hard to believe it's ushering in the most dreaded day of the year – reaping day. For a moment, I grimace in apprehension and loathing at what this day means. But I look back at the rising sun, turning the wheat fields next to the orchards into a shimmering golden lake below us, and for just a few moments, bathing the whole district in just a little bit of beauty. Add that to Sora's expression, as she sits back against the trunk of our tree just taking it all in, with a satisfied smile on her face, as if this is all she needs, and the scene becomes just lovely. I decide to take her example, and enjoy what little time we still have alone together, before the district stirs and we have to get back to the community home before our absence is noticed. I lean back against the tree trunk, crossing my arms and relaxing my muscles. I have to squint against the strengthening light to keep looking at it, but I should probably take this opportunity. It's Sora's first time seeing the sunrise from way up here, and admittedly I've only seen it two or three times. I have to take it all in while I can, because I don't know if we'll get another opportunity.

"It's beautiful," Sora breathes. "Angelo, thank you."

"No problem," I reply.

"Did you ever show anyone else this? Jaike, Ritch, Duncan, Varun, anyone?" she asks, naming my four roommates.

I grin and shake my head. "Do you think anyone else takes this golden opportunity to get some time in before everyone's up?"

But before Sora can answer, another voice, a strident, unwelcome voice, answers instead.

"Oh, I don't know, Tenshi. Did you think we'd catch on to you?"

My head snaps in the direction of the voice, as does Sora's. Sora huffs furiously and I mentally groan in anger when I see who's found us: Head Peacekeeper Collusk, followed by his Deputy Head Bolce and two regular Peacekeepers. They're not hefting guns, although their notorious whips are wound neatly into tight coils and fastened at their hip, and they aren't nearly fully equipped as our District's force of Peacekeepers usually are at all times, but they still have their power over us. All of them leer up at us, as if Sora and I are mice caught in a corner and they are the fat, spoiled cats who know their prey is caught and revel in it.

Collusk's superior smirk disgusts me. He jerks his head downwards, saying, "Better come on down now; if you run off it's only the worse for you."

Sora and I share a grim glance, then resignedly jump down, branch by descending branch, to the ground. I hear Sora whisper angrily to me as we make our way down. "First Jag and Janera," she hisses, reminding me of the caretakers (and I use that term very loosely) at the community home, "and now them! They never leave us alone; can't we ever get a break?"

We reach the earth to stand in front of Collusk and his squad. Instantly, the Peacekeepers fan out, standing in a half-circle in front of us. Up close, I recognize the two regular ones, Peacekeepers McConroy and Dakota, a young, weasel-like man and a sharp, indifferent, middle-aged woman. Sora and I are far too familiar with this pair – when either of us gets a public whipping, it's either McConroy or Dakota who will gladly do it. So one can imagine how unpleasant our meetings are. Collusk and Bolce are an even more despicable pair. Collusk seems to exist to make the lives of our district's people miserable. He gives orders for our torment, whether we have done wrong or not, carelessly and ruthlessly, and he derives sadistic pleasure from the absolute power he holds. Bolce, his beefy, rather witless deputy, is usually the one marching around the district, baton in hand, beating up anyone he decides is the slightest bit out of line. They both enjoy abusing their power and the people they are supposed to simply keep docile and peaceful, not mistreat. It seems all Peacekeepers do. I work to keep my face impassive to mask my loathing of the lot of them, but Sora is making no such effort, her hatred of our tormentors showing plainly in her scowling face and narrowed eyes.

The Peacekeepers laugh at Sora's defiant expression. "Thought you'd escape our eyes, little bird? Little mockingjay?" Dakota mocks Sora, as her normally stony expression morphs into a smirk. "Flying around the trees is going to get you out of trouble, is it, hm? You're little mockingjays, are you?"

"How you gonna get away now, blondie?" McConroy jeers and whacks me in the shoulder with his coiled-up whip. He's not very creative; this is probably the hundredth time he's made fun of my shoulder-length blond hair, bleached nearly white by the intense summer sun. "You're not gonna, now, are you? You're stuck and soon I'm gonna get to use this!" he says with an anticipatory smirk, running a gloved thumb along the coiled surface of the whip and no doubt imagining whipping me senseless and relishing every lash.

The other Peacekeepers chuckle heartily at our expense. I hate them, but I can endure them in silence. But Sora, with her fiery spirit, has trouble keeping her emotions roped in, and she looks like she'd like to start yelling her lungs out at the four of them and land a few hard, fast punches on them for good measure. She's done it on a couple other occasions, when she was really furious with them. They certainly do deserve it, I'll admit. But all that comes out of it is a brutal whipping for Sora and a reduction of her already meager rations as well. I mentally implore her to keep her head now, even when they're taunting us, because I've seen her back slashed to ribbons by the Peacekeepers' whips more times than I care to, and it takes a serious toll on me as well, every time I see her getting hurt. I just hope she can keep her temper under control now, because she can hardly bear the pain of the punishments they will coldly and dispassionately dole out, and I can hardly bear to watch it happen. She seems to be making an effort, but I can't tell how long she'll keep it up.

The Peacekeepers' laughter subsides, and they become cold and businesslike the way they usually are. Collusk fixes us with a hard glare, and Bolce withdraws his heavy baton from his jacket. "So what were the two of you doing out here in the early hours of the morning? Stealing food again? Looking for a way to slack off from your work? What was it?" he demands sharply.

To his surprise and utmost irritation, I smile, knowing that the true answer will enrage him when he can't find a legitimate excuse to punish us. "Actually, _sir,_" I say in an overly polite tone. "All of those thoughts are wrong. Sora and I have no intention of breaking any laws today. If you recall, we both live in the community home with many other children most of the time we're not working, and when we are working, it's in a crowded orchard. So you'll understand that we were simply trying to get some solitude in somewhere. No laws were broken, so if you would just go back to your duties and leave us alone, we'd greatly appreciate it."

Satisfaction washes over me when the Peacekeepers don't know how to react at first. For all their ego and bravado, none of them were accepted into the force for their first-rate intelligence and ability to solve problems, that's for sure. Judging from the attitudes of much of our Peacekeeper force, apathy and brutality are what gets you a place among them. Bolce is the first to speak, but, dimwitted as he is, his words don't sound quite as commanding as he'd probably like them to.

"Well, I know you two and anyone with half a brain can find something wrong with anything you do – "

"That's your problem, Bolce," Dakota snaps. "You don't have _any _brain; why don't you let us handle this and you can beat them up after we're done talking."

Bolce looks like he'd like to start hitting Dakota instead for insulting him, but Collusk shoves him aside, snapping at him to keep back until he's needed, and moves to the front of the group, stomping up to me and Sora until his snarling face is inches from my own impassive, glaring one.

"Listen, you," he hisses. "Every time I find you two lurking around together, there's always something illegal going on. Whether it's poaching food or wandering away from the worksite, there's always something I can get you two for. And now is no exception. So admit it now, and we _might _go easy on you…dirt," he adds as an afterthought.

Sora is really angry now. "Collusk, are you deaf?" she snaps. "Didn't you hear Angelo? We haven't stolen food, and it's reaping day so for once there's no work to slack off from. We aren't breaking curfew, because sunrise is when everybody comes out to work and we're entitled to go out into the district. So go on now, leave us alone, you've done your jobs."

Collusk turns slowly to her and his cold brown eyes narrow. "No, I don't think so, Fielding. We haven't done our jobs just yet," he says softly, dangerously. I've heard that tone of voice before, and I see Sora brace herself for what she knows will come in the next instant. I throw my arm out to protect her, but striking her was not Collusk's intention. He pulls his heavy wooden baton, reinforced with metal, out of his jacket and smashes it full force into my cheek, knocking me off balance. Dazed, I stumble to the ground, but recover quickly when I hear Sora shriek in anger and see her lunge at Collusk, fists clenched and ready for battle. But the second her fist makes contact with Collusk, the lash of Dakota's uncoiled whip slices her forearm and McConroy's baton slams into her side, knocking the wind out of her. I rush in to help, and unavoidably to fight for myself, but Collusk and Bolce are both on me at once. I kick and punch at him, which works for a bit because I'm faster and more agile than either of them, but they're bigger and stronger and have me down in moments, Bolce's beefy form pinning my slight body to the dew-damp earth, with his knees digging painfully into my ribs. I struggle with all I have, but I can't escape his hold; they know how to keep a victim down while they do what they do best. Bolce is swinging his baton wildly and brutally into my body, while Collusk has abandoned his baton and is off to the side, letting Bolce do the dirty work while he lashes as me occasionally with his whip. His well-practiced hand and eyes administer the lashes at the exact moment when he knows it will hurt most.

I hang on to my consciousness and struggle against the blows raining onto me for as long as I can, but I'm losing it fast. The continued hits from the baton into my head are too much, and the whiplash is making the torment so much worse.

The last things I see before I pass out from the blows to my head are Sora, on the ground too, screaming and fighting like a wild animal, trying to get up to either run or fight but held down like me by McConroy, who's not beating her like Bolce is doing to me, but holding the struggling girl in place while Dakota mercilessly whips her, a sight that repulses and enrages me; and a strange, small dark streak – that looks vaguely human, I think I make out wide brown eyes staring back at me - dashing through the berry bushes that accompany the orchards…

~0~

When I come to, the first thing I notice is that the sun is higher in the sky than when I was beaten unconscious, and the sky is pure blue and the clouds are fluffy white. I open my eyes, and even that tiny action brings a bit of pain. I groan in annoyance. Bolce probably jabbed his baton into the left eye a couple times. I sit up, and my body aches in protest, but it's bearable. Then I remember my companion.

"Sora?" I say, looking around for her. "Sora? Where are you?"

I carefully get to my feet, not knowing what may have been damaged while I was unconscious. I search the orchard for her, panic starting to rise in me when she doesn't answer my calls and I can't find her, and I'm afraid of what the Peacekeepers may have done to her. But my fears are calmed when I finally spot her lying at the foot of one of the smaller fruit trees, still unconscious, looking like the Peacekeepers carelessly threw her there and left her, probably to separate and worry us.

I sprint over to her and kneel next to her. She doesn't look much worse off than I am. She's wounded, but breathing normally. A good amount of whip cuts on her arms and legs, and some bruises as well; McConroy probably kicked her around a bit. It will hurt as much as my wounds do when she wakes up, but we're accustomed to getting beaten up. It happens with the Peacekeepers about as often as it happens in the community home. We'll recover, as we always do.

I shake her shoulder gently, not wanting to hurt her. "Sora?" I say. "Sora, come on. Wake up now. Wake up."

After a few moments, her eyes open a tiny bit. When she comes to, she realizes something is touching her shoulder – my hand – and, probably because the last thing she remembers is being tormented by Peacekeepers, she lets out a shriek and jumps back a few feet, clearly ready to fight again. When she tries to, I quickly step over to her and take hold of her wrists so she won't punch me. She struggles, trying to escape my grip.

"Sora!" I say loudly, not letting her go. "Sora, relax, it's me!"

She struggles for a moment more, before coming to her senses and becoming still. "A-Angelo?" she says, sounding disoriented.

I let her wrists go, and speak softly. "It's me, Sora. It's all right. They left us here, they're gone."

Both of us are still and silent for a moment, the only sound in the air is our deep breathing.

"Sorry, Angelo," Sora finally says. "I didn't think, I just remembered Dakota and McConroy attacking me and I just panicked."

"It's okay. I understand."

"It's just…" She hesitates, looking away. I wait silently for her answer. After a minute she looks back up at me. "It's just that they were hurting you, and I wanted to help, but I couldn't. McConroy…" She pauses again, her face contorting with hatred. "He's disgusting. He kept trying to…run his hands over me while he was pinning me down. And I swear I saw his tongue flick out a couple of times."

Hearing her talk about what McConroy was doing to her sends burning rage blazing through me. No one should ever be able to do that to her. I should have been able to do something. It isn't the first time he's done it either; not just to Sora, but to plenty of the other District 11 girls he polices. And he's done worse to them. "That's what he was sent to become a Peacekeeper for, right?" I say carefully.

"Yeah," Sora replies, her eyes narrowed. "He was a pervert in the Capitol, and so they got rid of him by sending him to do the same thing over here." She makes an aggravated noise and runs a hand through her hair. "Only here he won't get punished for it. What I wouldn't give to put a rock in his skull…"

"If you'd like, I could give him a good punch to the face for you the next time he tries beating us up," I offer. It would be incredibly satisfying to do that under the pretense of self-defense.

Sora smiles at me. "Thanks, but I took care of that already," she says. "I got very lucky; I was able to get out of his hold for a moment."

"Let me guess," I say, a smile spreading over my own face. "You took advantage of every second of it."

"Well, well, the boy knows me. Of course I did," she says, clearly proud of it. "They pulled me right back down again afterwards though, and it was around then that they knocked me out, but let's just say McConroy will probably not be fathering any children in his lifetime now that I got my own kicks in."

I laugh, knowing Sora can take care of herself pretty well, unlike a lot of the other children of the district, who are too scared of the Peacekeepers to do anything other than meekly go through school and work and a quiet night at home. I have to say, she's an excellent influence on the other girls in the community home, especially the younger ones. Others' opinions would differ greatly, but I think it's wonderful. Maybe no monumental change will come of it, and maybe it won't get us less work or more food, but if Sora and I can ensure that at least some of the kids will grow up wary and careful, but unafraid and strong, nothing we have done will be useless, as everyone tells us it is.

"So when did all that happen?" I ask.

Sora's smile drops from her face. "It was just after you got knocked out," she begins quietly. "I'm sorry, Angelo…I had gotten out, and they were beating you even after they knocked you out…I should have helped you…"

I frown, and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Sora, you only got up for a moment, and they pushed you right back down after you kicked McConroy. You didn't have time to do anything else. Don't worry."

"But they were hurting you, my closest friend, and I couldn't do anything about it," Sora says, her voice taking on a tone of sorrow and self-loathing that I recognize all too well. I wrap my arm completely around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. "I couldn't help you. Whenever they attack us in groups…they always overpower us. They hurt us, they hurt both of us, and they hurt _all _of us. People always tell us we're so great and strong, but really there's nothing we can do. Not for each other or for any of us."

"Now stop that kind of talk, Sora," I tell her firmly. "I know why you keep thinking these things, but it's not worth it to think of what we can't do." I hesitate before saying what else is in my head. "Your parents wouldn't have wanted that."

Sora glances up at me and then looks away. We two have an even stronger hatred of Peacekeepers than most in the district, because when I was ten my father died of his injuries on the whipping post for a crime he hadn't committed, and when Sora was eleven she saw both her parents murdered by one of them.

Sora's mother had been accused of stealing food (rightly, believe it or not), but the Peacekeeper that caught her had decided to deal a far more severe punishment than was necessary, and had beaten her near to death. Her father, coming back home with Sora from getting their rations, had seen what was going on and knew the Peacekeeper had gone too far. He hastily passed the rations to Sora and put her in a nearby alley, away from the Peacekeeper's unforgiving eyes, and raced over to protect his wife, yelling at the Peacekeeper to stop, that it was enough. The irate Peacekeeper didn't want him interfering with the punishment, and he pulled out his gun and shot her father, the bullet piercing through his chest; then when her mother screamed he shot her in the head, killing both of Sora's parents in a matter of seconds, right before her horrified eyes.

My own parents' deaths were slower, undoubtedly much more painful. I never knew my mother; she died giving birth to me. My father said it was because she was far too thin and emaciated to bear childbirth, and the doctor said she never had a chance. He told me it was never because of me, always coupled with a reassuring smile, or a hand on my shoulder, or a ruffle of my hair, which he mentioned once I'd inherited from my mother. He'd tell me it was never my fault she died, and he felt lucky to still have his son. And I believed him, but I never could get rid of the lingering bit of guilt that said that if it weren't for me, she'd still be alive. Nevertheless, the loss of his wife and the burden of being left to raise a child didn't discourage my father. We'd come home every day from our work in the wheat fields, and while we sipped long-awaited glasses of water – something given very sparingly at work – he'd look out the window and always tell me not to look to the future as a place of darkness, because he had faith that one day, things would change. I never replied when he said that, because I couldn't see how anything could be drastically different. Even today, I still can't see how that could happen.

But for some reason, I never loved him more than on those evenings together, and his optimism for the future was freely shown, away from skeptical looks and the sharp ears of the Peacekeepers who could get the wrong idea and think that my father would make this change come about himself and incite rebellion. He would never have endangered people like that however, gentle man that he was, and surprisingly enough, that's not what he was convicted of. One night, when a young man was being chased by Peacekeepers for stealing a jug of water and killing one of the Peacekeeper's prized attack dogs, he came across my father coming home late from work at the harvest, when most of us, including me, had been sent home already. The man must have been either heartless or desperate. To avoid capture and punishment by the Peacekeepers, he attacked my father, knocking him out, and then threw the water jug on him and smeared the dog's blood from his own arm on his shirt before escaping with his own sorry life. The Peacekeepers hadn't seen the real criminal's face, and hadn't gotten a very good idea of what he looked like. So when my father was found with the evidence surrounding him, he was arrested and convicted of the crime. His claims of innocence were largely disregarded, though the Peacekeepers did come to the conclusion that the dog's death was an accident, and his sentence was a seventy-five-lash public whipping.

He assured me that he'd come out of it okay. Beaten and bleeding and wounded, but gradually healing and alive at least. No one is very smart when they're ten years old, but even so I should have known better than to hope that he'd survive, much less believe it. My father was an older man to begin with, and younger, stronger people have difficulty making it through far less lashes than he was issued. Add that to the fact that he had been beaten severely while imprisoned to get a confession out of him – there was no doubt of that, I could see it in his face and movements the last few times they let me see him – and I should have known not to believe he'd have a chance. I watched them drag him up onto the platform and bind his wrists so tightly to the whipping post I saw them digging into his skin, a frightened child hoping will all his heart that the one person who cared about him most would somehow be okay. But it was a hopeless situation. From the first few lashes, it was clear my father couldn't take the pain that was to come. The agony and strain were too much for him. He held out as long as he could, but he passed out at around thirty lashes. The Peacekeeper didn't care, he had been sentenced to seventy-five lashes and he would deliver just that amount, and if anything he whipped the body hanging from the post with more violently than before. My father didn't even last that long. It was around fifty lashes when everyone started to notice something was wrong. And it was at around sixty lashes when someone from the crowd screamed out, "He's not breathing!" and we knew he was already gone. Those damn Peacekeepers…They knew what they were doing. They knew my father wouldn't be able to take so much punishment and live. It was given out that the death was purely an accident, but it swayed nobody. Everyone knew the truth for themselves – My father had been murdered by them the same way Sora's parents had, caring nothing for the children they left orphaned and just sending them off to the community home without a second thought about the whole matter.

Sora and I both know what it is to be forced back when those we love are in danger, and to be helpless to protect them when they need it most. Sora could do nothing to save her parents and I could do nothing to save mine, either. I know what Sora is talking about, when she thinks she should have been able to help me when the Peacekeepers were beating me up. It's because neither of us ever want to lose somebody else we love and just be standing helplessly by. That's the one thing both of us hate like nothing else – being helpless. The memories of our parents' deaths are tainted by the feeling, and we can't take it again. We do all we can for those we care for now, but even with all of our hearts in it, it will still never be enough. I will never be enough. And that's the one thing that always comes back to haunt my thoughts and pervade my nightmares one way or another. Sora is undoubtedly the same. Even through all her fiery spirit, noise, and bravado, her fears mirror my own. Neither of us can lose another person we love and be helpless to stop it, but there's no way to protect all of them completely. One day, our worst nightmares may come true.

And this is reaping day. For all we know, today could be that day.

I grasp Sora's shoulders tighter when I realize I'm shaking. The fear is threatening to take me over again. Sora looks at me with concern and understanding in her eyes. I hastily try to regain control of myself. I pull us both to our feet and bite down hard on my lip, fighting to compose myself. Sora reaches out to run her hand gently over my cheek.

"Well, we've done fine so far, haven't we?" she says softly, to reassure herself as much as me. "The kids are none the worse for wear, and the Peacekeepers haven't killed in a few months; that must be a new record."

"I suppose so," I say. _But that can only last for so long, _I think. I'm calmer now, but the dread of reaping day has reestablished itself in my mind. "Let's go back to the community home," I suggest. I feel inside the secret pockets and folds of my clothes where I tuck away fruit and other purloined food, and am relieved to find that they have not been discovered by the Peacekeepers. Sora does the same and smiles. "We have some food to take home to our friends, at least," I say.

"The silver lining," Sora replies, quoting from a very old saying her mother used to tell her.

"And it's probably best if we get back fast," I say, remembering what else awaits us there. "Jag and Janera are going to be angry enough that we snuck out without them noticing. They'll be livid if we don't get there in time for the reaping."

"And the dark gray clouds," Sora says, sticking out her lower lip in a mock-pout. "Well, I'm not in the mood to get backhanded across the face any more, so let's go before we give Jag an excuse to."

"As if he needs an excuse," I mutter as we make our way out of the orchards. We start off at a light jog, having no desire to set our wounds bleeding again. But slow speeds never have been to Sora's liking. Her smile broadening, she gradually quickens our pace as we leave behind the fruit-laden trees and move onto the dusty, earthen roads, until we're all but running. Our wounds seem to be taking the exertion well, though my body still aches rather badly and I'm sure Sora's does too, but we have handled worse than soreness. By the time we've reached the main road, we're sprinting, racing, sending up small clouds of dirt and dust. Again we are caught up in the moment, the time we have with each other. _Never mind what's happened before_, I think, glancing at Sora's bright eyes and smile. _Never mind what's waiting for us. We're together now, aren't we? There are so many terrible things in our district, why not enjoy one of the few good things while we can?_

And as I run with Sora, everything else rushes from my mind. There is only her, me, this nearly deserted road, and the wind blowing hard in our faces, sending our hair flying back. Right now, just in this one moment, I can forget it all. The terrible conditions of our home district are forgotten. Our encounter with the Peacekeepers is forgotten. Even the Hunger Games are forgotten.

I think I'd better enjoy it now. Who knows how long it will last until something shatters the happiness we can share?

**~0~**

**So far, nobody's figured out the mystery of Tobin's name…Then again, no one reviewed for the last chapter at all. Come on, people, I need feedback! Please review!**

**Musical themes –**

**The beginning theme, with Angelo and Sora in the orchards, is Homeland by Hans Zimmer, from Spirit – Stallion of the Cimarron. **

**The theme of the Peacekeepers' attack is the Middle Boss Battle theme from Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, by Koji Kondo.**

**The theme of Angelo and Sora's pasts is the Hunger Games Main Theme, another original song by the brilliant YouTube user RaeofRandomness. I said it once in a comment and I'll say it again here: I defy Danny Elfman to compose something that can hold a candle to her music. That is what should be in the movie. For anyone who hasn't heard it yet, go on and give it a listen. It's definitely worth it. **

**When Sora and Angelo run back home, the theme is a reprise of Homeland. **

**Name meanings –**

**Angelo means 'heavenly messenger' and his last name, Tenshi, means 'angel' in Japanese.**

**Sora means 'sky' in Japanese, and I also chose it because it sounds like 'soar.' Her last name, Fielding, refers to her district's industry - agriculture.**

**All the other names in this chapter – excluding Angelo's roommates, whose names will be explained in the next chapter's A/N, after they're introduced – are made up, and have no particular meaning. **

**Reviewers get cookies and a sooner update!**

**~0~**


	7. For The Family

**Taiga's POV**

I'm shaking uncontrollably as I run, as fast as I can push myself to go, thinking of nothing but to put as much distance between me and those Peacekeepers as I can. The image of Angelo, pinned down under that huge one, getting beaten bloody, lingers horribly in my mind. His deep amber eyes – an eye color I'd never seen before or since first seeing him, though Dad told me he got them from his mother – burning with fury and defiance as he refuses to give up his fight is a sight that never ceases to amaze me.

Sora is amazing as well, in her way, but…there's just something about Angelo that draws my attention to him. I admire him so much, for his unfailing strength and his good heart, but the Peacekeepers – most of them the polar opposite of him – frighten me so badly. The knowledge that even Angelo can and will fall to them unnerves me terribly, sending icy shivering to my core and all through my body, because if they can bring Angelo down, then of course they'll do far worse to the rest of us who cannot muster the courage to stand up to them with no fear.

I'm fairly certain the Peacekeepers were too occupied with beating up Angelo and Sora to notice me scavenging around amid the berry bushes, but there could be more, and I locked eyes with Angelo for a moment before I ran away, so if he saw me, chances are the Peacekeepers may have. I'm hoping fervently that they didn't, because I tremble to think of what would they would do to me if I were caught, with as many berries as I could take before I realized I was not alone. I've never been whipped myself; I've been scared into line for most of my life. This is only the second or third time I've even tried to steal food. I never even went through with it the first times, I was too frightened of being caught and punished.

It's nerve-wracking to do, under the pressure of the fear of being spotted and punished, but Angelo has been doing it for years, to get food for his friends at the community home. Nobody's ever said it outright – nobody wants to see him hurt except for the Peacekeepers – but the home kids do seem to be more accepting of their rations than most, and sometimes I see them furtively nibbling pieces of food that couldn't have come from their normal rations. And judging from the things I've heard them say about that place, and what they whisper to one another about a certain pair of orchard workers who live there with them, that's the only explanation.

But even Angelo gets caught at it sometimes. And everyone sees what they do to him, how they slice his back to bloody ribbons dozens of times over, to hold him up in front of all of us and torture him to make it horrifyingly clear that they are not to be defied by the rest of us the way Angelo defies them. And we understand. Every time I have to watch him get whipped, I wonder how he can stand it at all and eventually come out fine. It must be even worse for him, because of how his father died.

I was only seven when it happened, but it was the first whipping I'd ever seen and remembered, and I'll never forget it; it's one of the most horrible things I'd ever seen one human being do to another. The sight of the poor man's bloodied body, shaking and sweaty, terrified me. Brodie and I buried our tearstained faces in our father's jacket, not wanting to watch; but I think I remember something else, it was very strange. While my brother and I were so horrified we couldn't watch, ten-year-old Angelo couldn't look away.

I could see the horror and agony in his eyes, but he seemed too numb to even cry – not that Angelo ever does cry, I heard Sora mention once to a friend that she's known him for years and never seen him cry – and he looked like he was hurting on the inside even more than his father was on the outside. After the death, in school or in the field when I saw him, he had the same hollow, suffering look for a long while. It's almost impossible to match this image to the strong, brave young man that is admired by so many, me especially, and will never again give in to pain. And if Angelo, after all the Peacekeepers have done to him and all he's seen and felt, can do something to defy them, then what's to say I can't? I want to be as strong as him one day, instead of skittish and weak the way I am, the way I always have been.

I suddenly realize I've run far from the berry bushes and the sight of any Peacekeepers, and that my burning lungs are screaming in protest. I stop short, clutching the precious fruit as close as I can without crushing it and trying to conceal it better, and lean against a tree to rest for a moment, breathing hard through a raw throat. I'm exhausted, from being up since before dawn trying to steal food unnoticed under cover of darkness and from running farther and faster than I thought I could. Perhaps fear really is a good motivator.

The good thing is, I'm close to my home, which is on the edge of the farthest cluster of houses that make up the smaller part of the district; the bulk of it is fields and such. I have to be thankful for one aspect of our lives in this district: a benefit of working day in, day out is that every worker, myself included, develops plenty of stamina. I make sure the berries are secure and look back to make sure no incriminating berry was accidentally dropped on my frantic race away from the Peacekeepers, then dash off again. A few minutes later, I safely reach my house. I push open the door and wish it didn't creak so loudly. Brodie must have been half-awake already, because he immediately flies up out from under the tattered green blanket on the mattress we share.

"Hey, Taiga, where've you been?" the nine-year-old boy chirps. I sigh. No one was supposed to know I was gone. But there are only three people that live in this tiny, two-room shack of a house, so I guess the absence of one is too easy to notice. Dad steps out of the other room, where I guess by the smell that he was cooking our ration grain, and he looks at me concernedly.

"Taiga?" he asks. "What have you been doing?"

"Getting us some breakfast," I mumble to the floorboards, holding out the couple handfuls of berries I gathered. Brodie gasps and Dad's eyebrows shoot almost to his receding hairline.

"Taiga…" he says, his voice rising. "Where did you get those? Who gave them to you?"

"I…No one gave them to me," I mutter. "I got them myself."

"You did?" Brodie says, surprised but glad. "Cool!"

"Brodie, quiet," Dad says, looking at me with a mixture of anger and fear, mirrored in his voice. "Taiga, you stole them? After all the warnings I gave you, you snuck out and stole food? I'm ashamed of you, Taiga, I thought you knew better!"

"I know, Dad," I say, looking up and meeting his eyes. "But you know as well as I do that that they don't give anyone enough food. So we've got to get the food we need from somewhere."

"And risk punishment?" Dad counters, taking a long step towards me. "After all I've told you about how we need to protect our family; you disregard me completely, throw caution to the winds, and knowingly put you and your brother and me in danger!"

"But Dad!" I protest. "I was being careful, I wouldn't have gotten caught! We've never had enough to eat and I'm just trying to help! You know we need more food, and I got some! What's wrong with that?"

"A handful of berries could land us all on in prison or on the whipping post, that's what's wrong with it!" Dad says forcefully. "What on earth gave you the idea to stray so far out of line this way, Taiga? I taught you to keep yourself safe and you go and do the exact opposite behind my back! Why?"

"To help my family live!" I plead. "We can't get by on just our rations – "

"I think we've done fine with them all our lives."

" – and I just want to help! Our family will do a lot better if we just had a little more food, which I can get; don't you see?"

"What gave you that idea?" Dad says, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "You couldn't have come up with that yourself."

Brodie looks like he wants to contradict him, but doesn't want Dad's anger taken out on him for being on my side. I don't really want to either, but I was only trying to help, I don't deserve to get yelled at. And I can't just stand and take it like I normally would. No, I need to start being stronger like I want to be. Like Angelo would be. Angelo…In all honesty, I got the idea from him, but I don't want to admit it in front of Dad, he hates Angelo just as much as I admire him.

"I…I…" I stammer uselessly. I'm at a loss for words. I'm normally a good liar, but I can't lie to Dad. The look he always gives me when he's upset with me somehow nixes my ability to lie. Maybe it's a quality all parents have. Whatever it is, it's very inconvenient for me. I sigh deeply and begin to speak, with no choice but to admit it all. "…I was walking past the community home one day a couple months ago."

"What were you doing there?" Dad demands.

"I was taking the long way home from school," I explain quickly. "I wasn't doing anything wrong; I just wanted a little change for one day."

Dad nods. "That's fine. Go on."

"I was walking by, and I…I saw a group of boys in one of the rooms through a little window."

"Who were they?" Dad says immediately. "Tell me all about them."

"Um…" I hesitate, trying to remember. "There were…three or four of them, I don't quite remember how they looked and I don't know most of their names or how old they are."

"_Most_ of their names?" Dad says, picking up on what I tried to avoid.

I swallow, fidgeting under his piercing gaze. "Well, I only knew one of them…"

"Who? Taiga Vernesh, you tell me right now."

"I-It was…Angelo Tenshi, Dad," I whisper, hoping not to be heard. _Sorry, Angelo, _I think. _I didn't want to sell you out, I had no choice._

"Angelo Tenshi?" Dad shouts, making Brodie and I jump. "Had he been stealing food again?"

"Y-Yes," I squeak. "He…He didn't eat any himself though, he was breaking it up into pieces and giving it to the other boys. They were younger; I think they were home kids, too. I...I…I think…I think he just wanted to help his friends, is all."

Dad's lip curls into a sneer. "Of course he was," he says, in a low voice dripping with sarcasm. "Of course he and that girl of his were. And I suppose the fact that that pair of lowlifes go around regularly breaking the law with no regard for their friends' safety is of so much help to them."

"Dad!" I cry. "Don't say that! He…He's not bad!" Even as the words come out, I know they're pitiful. _Yes, Taiga, of course you can change Dad's mind in a second with such astounding feats of articulation, _I think bitterly, wishing that his disapproving eyes weren't boring into mine quite so intensely.

"And how would you know?" he shoots back at me. "Don't tell me you've gotten yourself involved with that ratty boy and that streetwalker girl of his?"

"No, Dad, no! I'm don't…I'm not…I don't know either of them, I've never even talked to them! I'm just telling you what I saw! Please believe me," I plead with him, growing desperate now.

I hear Brodie make a scared sound and, out of the corner of my eye, notice him sliding back under the blanket to curl up there. He's usually a bright, unafraid boy, but when it's right there for him to see he is more afraid of confrontation than anyone I've ever met. Just watching the Hunger Games every year borders on traumatizing for him, and seeing Dad and I argue is bad enough. I don't want to make Dad angry or frighten Brodie, but I can't talk against Angelo, I admire him too much. So I pick my next words carefully so as not to harm either. And it's not even a lie, really.

"Dad, I'm sorry I went and took the food. I just thought we needed it, and I really was only trying to help. I don't want to be yelled at for that. The kids Angelo and Sora steal food for just seemed a little better off than the rest. I thought that if I did the same thing, we'd be better off too, even if I did have to do it without you knowing. If that's wrong, then I'm really sorry. Please believe me."

"Taiga…" To my relief, Dad's voice is softer, but still every bit as firm and commanding. I'm not out of the woods yet. "I trust you, but I didn't raise you to become the kind of person that goes around flagrantly breaking the law every other day and getting yourself into trouble. I don't want to see you getting punished on the whipping post like him. I don't want to see you be _anything _like him. Believe _me,_ Taiga, following that boy's example like this will only turn you into a criminal the way he is, and that's not the way my daughter is going to turn out. Doing things like this – " he gestures to the berries still in my hands – "is the first step down that path. And if you don't get off now, well, you've seen what happens to Tenshi when the Peacekeepers catch him doing wrong. I can't stop that from happening to you if that's what you really want, but I can warn you. I can try."

"Th-thanks, Dad," I get out shakily, still a little nervous.

Dad gives a half smile. "It's okay, Taiga."

Brodie, sensing that the danger has passed, rises up from under the blanket again. "Do we still get to eat the berries?" he pipes up hopefully.

I glance down worriedly at the berries in my hands. Dad stares at them, his face impassive. For all his talk, the prospect of a little more food is tempting to him as well, it seems. But after a moment, he makes up his mind.

"No," he says. "No, we won't have them. If we do, it'll be a bad example to set for the future. Get rid of them, Taiga."

"But, Dad, I - !" I start to protest, but a sharp look from Dad stops my voice short.

"_Now_, Taiga." The finality in his voice leaves no room for argument.

"But how?" I ask. I didn't plan for this. I had envisioned us eating and enjoying the berries, not arguing with Dad over how I got them. I had stolen the berries in the predawn shadows, hoping not to be seen. Now that it's daylight, I've lost that advantage. What does he expect me to do?

"You were smart enough to get the berries," Dad says, turning back to the cooking grain. "You should be smart enough to get rid of them. And if I find out you ate them yourself, you'll be wishing the Peacekeepers had caught you first."

I open my mouth to say something else, but nothing comes to mind, and I let out a sigh. Then I notice movement from the corner of my eye, and I turn to see Brodie out of bed and pulling on his tattered shirt. "I'll come with you," he says brightly. "I wanna help!"

"No, Brodie!" I say quickly. "If the Peacekeepers catch us, you'd be punished too, and for nothing."

"Well, you don't know what to do, so I thought you'd need my help," Brodie says, pulling his shoes on. "I think I know what we can do, but if you don't let me go with you, I just won't tell you."

I sigh again. That's the thing with Brodie – he's never afraid until he's staring his fears in the face, like when Dad and I fought in front of him with no warning. They don't cloud his mind with apprehension, so that doesn't affect his choices much. He's not like me, constantly fearing what my actions will bring and often too afraid of what may happen to take a chance and take what will.

My theft of the berries was one of the most terrifying things I've ever done, with the terror of being caught running through my body and beating into my thoughts each second I went on with it. Brodie would have been careful just like I was, but he wouldn't have been scared like I was. He's ready for anything, and likely whatever ideas he has are the sort of things I'd never come up with, with fear tinting my decisions. I have no doubts that he'll grow up to be a far better, stronger person than me and with no help at all from either me or Dad. Not that we're the best examples for him, but again, he doesn't seem to need us much.

"All right," I quietly consent. "Let's go."

If Dad is watching us leave, he doesn't show it at all. His eyes don't flick over to us once as I tuck the berries safely under my jacket to hide them from prying eyes and we run out the door. As Brodie dashes in the direction of the tall grass behind the house, I follow without looking back. My insides wrench like they do when I'm doing something wrong, but this is what Dad told me I should do. If taking the berries for us would only put us in danger, this must be what will help our family. Dad would know. He's taken care of me for fourteen years, I reason, he probably knows what's best for us. Apparently I sure don't.

**~0~**


	8. Thunderclouds

**Angelo's POV**

Sora and I are nearly out of breath when we reach the community home, and our wounds fiercely protest our moment of ecstasy, but we don't mind that much. We've grown up always learning to endure what our lives inevitably throw at us. When we reach the old, highly unreliable wooden steps leading up to the door of the home, we both stop short and skid a couple inches on the loose, sandy earth on the side of the road, grabbing the railing of the porch for support as we catch our breaths.

Though it was a bit exhausting to run all the way here from the orchards, and our bruised lungs scream for rest and air, the exhilaration unrelated to darting through the trees all day while we work, under the cold and condescending eyes of the Peacekeepers, is welcome. Sora and I are panting like overtired dogs, but a smile is clearly spreading on Sora's face when she looks at me, and I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up to return the grin. We stay like this for a couple minutes until we've regained our energy and our breathing has returned to normal. I stand up straight, and Sora does the same.

"Come on," I say resignedly, starting for the door. "Let's go."

Sora doesn't answer, but I hear her footsteps as she follows me. I push open the door, which bears signs of recently being kicked open, as the area around the lock is newly splintered and I think I can make out a dusty boot print on the wood, and walk in. The musty smell of old wood, a good amount of people, and the alcohol that Jag always sneaks in for himself on reaping day hits my nose the instant I step in.

"So you two are finally here, then? Took you long enough. It's too bad; I was hoping you would be gone long enough to miss the reaping. Things would be a lot more peaceful around here if the pair of you were languishing in prison for a few months for missing it."

My eyes automatically narrow at the sound of the oily voice. I don't need to look at Jag to know he's smirking. I quicken my pace, wanting to be done with him as soon as I can. Sora does the same, growling in annoyance and striding toward the stairs. Neither of us even glances at Jag, hoping he'll decide that we're not worth his time and to leave us alone for the moment. But of course, we have no such luck.

"Hey," Jag snarls, his voice again rough and harsh the way it normally is. "Don't you just ignore me! Don't you walk away from me!"

I stop, reaching out and grasping Sora's shoulder to stop her as well, before turning to glare at Jag. He's leaning up against the wall just next to a front window - in what would normally be a relaxed position but here looking tense, as though he had been looking or waiting for something - holding a half-empty bottle of beer and looking very irritated. Jag Zirant is one of our least favorite people outside the Peacekeeper corps. He doesn't like either of us; this was made clear from the first day I came to live in the community home, and it only intensified when Sora came about a year later. We are independent. We aren't submissive. We don't do as he says just because it's him saying it. We seem to embody everything he hates about his many charges.

"What do you want?" I say tonelessly. Jag opens his mouth to speak, but Sora will have none of that.

"Can't you see we've both been beaten within an inch of our lives, Jag?" she snaps. She's exaggerating quite a bit, but she does tend to do that when she's irritated. "And on reaping day, no less. We were just attacked by a gang of Peacekeepers for no reason at all and left unconscious to bleed for hours! I had to deal with that literally at the crack of dawn, and I don't need your crap the minute I start to recover!"

Jag alternates between glaring daggers at Sora and glancing at the beer bottle in his hand, probably debating whether to conserve his precious liquor or smash the bottle over Sora's head. I can't hold back a smirk. And neither, it appears, can Janera, who comes out of the kitchen with a bigger smirk on her face than mine.

"I wouldn't push her too far today, Jag," she says, coming to stand beside her husband. "You don't want to end up like McConroy, do you?"

"The Peacekeepers were here?" I say, over Jag's irritated snarling about what he would do to Sora if she tried anything with him, which apparently involves cracking her skull open against the door frame and whipping her raw with his belt.

"Yes, they came about an hour and a half ago," Janera informs us. "Collusk and Dakota came in to talk with Jag – "

"Just the pair of them?" I cut in. "It's unusual for only part of a group of Peacekeepers to come in."

"To intimidate people, right?" Janera guesses. I nod, and she goes on. "I think all of them might have come in, if they didn't want to look foolish. But I noticed McConroy outside, with the big stupid one helping him try to stand. From the looks of it, someone kicked him damn hard, right where it counts…Was that you, songbird?" She raises an eyebrow at Sora, who received her nickname from Janera for having the voice the mockingjays love best.

"Well, it would have been pretty weird if he had been trying to molest Angelo, wouldn't it?" snaps Sora, putting her hand on her hip.

"Of course it was you. Who else is either gutsy or stupid enough to fight a Peacekeeper than you and angel boy here? Anyway, they came in to talk with Jag right after they finished with you. By the way, angel boy…" She turns to me. "You might want to make sure Duncan doesn't end up breaking Collusk's neck for hurting his sister. Clover got in his way when he came barging in here, and, well, he didn't want to waste his breath just telling her to move. She'll have that bruise on her face for a while, I think. Poor little thing," she adds as an unconvincing afterthought.

"You know, Collusk isn't entirely to blame, Tenshi," Jag says bitterly, setting his drink down on the windowsill and coming over to glare in my face. "If you and Fielding hadn't gone off and provoked them, none of us would have any of this trouble."

"It was them who attacked – "

"I don't care!" snaps Jag. "Just keep out of their way, you idiot, is that so hard?" He slams the heel of his hand directly into the middle of my chest, making a new wave of pain sear my bruised and injured torso. I resist the impulse to gasp at the sudden pain and, with some effort, straighten up before he can do anything else. I give myself a moment to decide what to do. Fortunately, a moment is all I need. I know how to get through situations like these; I've been getting through them for years, learning as I go.

I came here seven years ago, when I was ten years old, when Jag could still scare and threaten me into doing what he wanted. The funny thing is, a lot of things changed between us once I grew up enough to look him in the eyes. I have no reason to be threatened by him anymore. What's more, as I've matured I've learned effective ways to handle confrontations. I learned to keep all emotions inside when in difficult situations, and deal with them calmly and coolly. From what I've seen, people – particularly Jag, Janera, and most Peacekeepers – hate it when they're angry with me and I don't get angry at them too when confronted, and that usually makes them angrier and less rational, making it easier for me to come out on top, or, at least, appear in the right whether I am or not. So I decide the best course of action is to simply speak the truth, in a quiet and level voice.

"If the Peacekeepers want to pointlessly attack Sora and I," I say, fixing Jag with an intense glare, "that's not our fault. If you've got a problem with it, take it up with them."

"Why would I do that?" Jag yells. "You think I want more of the kind of trouble you force on me? I don't need or want any of that! You bring enough of it already, Tenshi!"

I remain silent, thinking not for the first time that Jag is conveniently forgetting the consequences his own actions could bring – his liquor couldn't have come to him legally, and it's clear all he wants is to make sure the Peacekeepers leave the community home alone so they won't catch _him_ breaking the law – but not calling him out on it. Jag is getting even more fired up by my lack of response, exactly what I expected. Sora, on the other hand, still has yet to learn the art of calm confrontation. While I've taught myself to keep my emotions from rising anywhere near the surface, Sora only flares up right back, even more intensely now, and has become more outspoken and brash, and just as I show what I've become now, she shows it too.

"Don't turn this all back on Angelo!" she yells at Jag. "You just don't want to admit it's the Peacekeepers' fault, so you blame him for everything they do! You're just as bad as them; you make me sick, Jag!"

Jag's expression is one of pure fury. "Shut up!" he shouts. "You two will just never learn your place, will you?"

He lunges for Sora, grabbing her roughly by her ponytail and bringing his knee up into her stomach. He's learned how to deal with his enemies too; he knows to act fast to one of us before the other steps in. So, to my chagrin, he's able to ram his knee into a violently struggling Sora's ribs and stomach three times before she manages to wriggle out of his grip and I, in the next instant, bolt in between them and push Jag away from Sora.

Acting on protective instinct, I wrap my arms around Sora, who is expending extra effort to breathe after getting the wind knocked out of her, and move my body in front of her, shielding her from any further attacks. Jag stares at us, barely affected by me. I hadn't intended to harm him anyway; my only aim was to get Sora away from him. Janera, who is used to seeing this kind of clash between Jag and I, simply stands and watches with an expressionless face.

I back up a few steps, half-carrying and half-dragging Sora with me, moving for the stairs. Sora, after a moment, recovers, straightens up, and resumes sending a defiant glare in Jag's direction. She's willing to fight again if he persists, but I've had enough for today. I wait, making sure Jag is done too and won't come rushing in on us the second we turn our backs. I heave an internal sigh of relief when he glares at us for a moment more, then decides that we're not worth the trouble and with a derisive snort he turns away from us and goes back to his beloved liquor.

Janera, as usual, doesn't comment on what's just happened, just looks at us for a moment longer and then turns back to continue with whatever she was doing beforehand. When I'm sure that they're both finished with us for the moment, I turn and stride quickly upstairs, Sora at my side as we ascend the stairs to the third floor.

Once we've reached the landing and are out of hearing distance from Jag or Janera, I turn to Sora and whisper, "Did all your food make it?"

Sora smirks and pulls a bit of peach from a hidden pocket under her shirt collar. "Some of it might be a little worse for wear, but still edible. I've got enough, how about you?"

"Just enough," I reply. "Bolce might have crushed a good bit of it with his club, but it's better than nothing."

"Alright then," says Sora. "I'll see you later. Hopefully we'll be able to get something else to eat before the reaping; because of those damn Peacekeepers, we were knocked out before we could get back for breakfast."

And with that, she turned and headed off down the left hallway, where the girls' rooms were located. I watch her until she's turned the corner and left my sight, and then start off down the hallway to the right, where the boys' rooms are. I reach the end of the hallway and push open the door to mine, and suppress a smile when instantly four heads jerk expectantly up.

"Hey, guys," I greet my roommates: Jaike, Duncan, Ritch, and Varun.

"Angelo!" they all exclaim at once. Varun steps up to me first, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you all right? Is Sora all right?" he asks, his forest-green eyes narrowed with worry.

"We're all right," I say, adding a dismissive wave of the hand to try and make my injuries seem like less than they are. I don't want them to worry about me, but worry they will, just as I worry when one of them gets in trouble. To my chagrin, my actions don't fool them.

"You don't look all right, you know," Ritch states the obvious, sitting on his bed in the corner of the room, his long legs hanging off the side. "You sure you're good? We could find medicine, like painkillers, I'm sure somebody has some hidden under their mattress or something. And if not we could check the storage rooms to see if there's any there – "

"No," I say firmly. "I haven't needed it before and I don't think I do now. Besides, none of you needs to get in trouble. Jag's already lost his patience with Sora and I and you know how Janera gets about us raiding the storage rooms."

Janera makes very clear to us what she'll do if she ever finds one of us sneaking around in those areas of the basement where basically everything – from food and water to random trash to the things that you mysteriously lose – is thrown if there's nowhere to put it or no use it's being put to. Jag doesn't much care if we go down as long as we don't take anything without his explicit permission; it's mainly Janera who promises to have us skinned alive if she catches us down there. And she's not kidding; the last kid who went intended to grab an extra blanket for himself and his roommate and ended up sleeping outside for a week with Peacekeeper-and-Janera-inflicted wounds. She claims she wants us to keep away from everything stored down there, since it's technically it's community home property, i.e. hers and Jag's. But we've come to the conclusion that there's something down there she's afraid we'll find, and she'll take drastic measures to be sure whatever it is, is kept secret. I doubt it, finding it more likely that she's just looking for an excuse to be horrible to us, but it's a risk not worth taking.

"That's an understatement," Ritch says, smirking. "But fine, we'll stay put."

Duncan, trying and succeeding in looking tough and strong as usual, sits cross-legged on the floor with his back against the side of his bed. His brown eyes are hard and angry. "You do look bad, man," he says. "But I hope you made sure to give the Peacekeepers a fight too."

"We try our best," I say simply. Duncan slams a fist into one hand, and I can imagine he's picturing slamming it into Collusk's face instead.

"You gave Collusk and his thugs marks to match, I hope? I would have," he says fiercely. "I would have made him pay for messing with you guys."

It doesn't take a genius to know what's got him so upset. His little sister Clover is the only family he has, and he's extremely protective of her. Knowing that Collusk hurt her and he can't do anything about it without getting himself in trouble and ending up harming them both is like multiple slaps to the face for Duncan.

"What a way to start off a reaping day," Duncan growls, confirming my thoughts. "From what I could understand from her, Janera had just finished yelling at her about something, and then Collusk came barging in and smacked her out of the way with his gun butt. Poor kid's got a hard enough life without Peacekeepers pushing her around too."

My stomach wrenches when I realize; first, he's absolutely right, and second, it's partially my fault she's hurt – if I hadn't taken Sora out for a morning alone, the Peacekeepers wouldn't have gone after us and they wouldn't have had any reason to come here and hurt Clover.

"Duncan…" I begin uncomfortably. "Duncan, I'm sorry Clover got hurt. If Sora and I hadn't aggravated Collusk, he wouldn't have come here and he wouldn't have hurt her."

"Don't you worry about it!" Duncan says. "It wasn't your fault. And listen, I'm sorry we didn't come help you. I'll tell you why not; here's what happened. It started after Collusk hit Clover with his gun and Janera told her to get out. Clover knew what to do when Peacekeepers come; when Janera kicked her out of the room she listened at the door."

I give a nod of understanding; the kids of the community home have developed a certain procedure among ourselves regarding Peacekeepers. If they come looking for one of us, someone listens to what they say in secret, if they're able to, and then warn whoever they're after; it's usually either Sora or me. It's not a lot of help against them, but it's good to know when they're here so you won't be caught off guard or without a warning. Or, in our case, to know when they've attacked someone already and their victims may be in need of help.

Duncan goes on. "She listened until the Peacekeepers had gone, but Jag caught her right when she was about to come tell us all about it. He let her come and tell us, but he came with her. He wanted to warn us that if any of us tried to go out and help you guys, he'd call the Peacekeepers back and tell them it was us who smuggled the alcohol in for ourselves, since they wouldn't believe us if we argued that it was him."

I grimace, knowing it's true. Jag has made great efforts to keep on good terms with the Peacekeepers, and they consider him a good informant and overall citizen, because he does his work, doesn't give them trouble, and above all supports them and can always be counted on to rat one of the community home kids out if they've done something wrong. And the only reason we haven't ratted out his breaking the law to the Peacekeepers is because even if he was imprisoned or punished in some way, he'd still come back to the community home, where he has authority over all of us who are stuck here. And if he decided to make the rest of our years here a living hell as punishment, he could do that quite easily. So we stay quiet, none of us having any desire for every day until our twenty-first birthdays – which is when we're assigned our own dwellings and we no longer have to stay at the home – to be as torturous as Jag can make them.

"So," Duncan concludes, "we decided to stay here to make sure nothing else happened. We were all really worried, but we didn't want anyone else getting hurt. Ordinarily, we could have snuck out and gone to help you, but Jag and Janera were keeping an extra close watch on us and make sure we stayed, and we didn't want to risk another Peacekeeper attack."

"I wouldn't risk it, either. And from what I saw, I'm pretty sure Jag was ready to call them at a moment's notice," I say, remembering Jag's readied position near the wall phone, as though waiting for something.

"If he hadn't done that, you know we'd have gone to help you," says Ritch earnestly, "but we couldn't risk pushing them too far."

"I know," I say. "You did right. This way, we'll all be fine for now."

"What about Sora?" says Varun, coming up to me with obvious anxiety in his voice. "Where is she?"

"She's in her room," I tell him. "She's fine."

"Are you sure?" he says.

"Positive. She's more or less in the same condition I am; she'll be okay."

Varun nods slowly. "All right…I'll go see her later…" he says softly, more to himself than to me, and steps back.

Duncan smirks at him. "Don't worry, Sora's a tough girl, she'll survive."

As Varun shoots him a glare, I realize there was one person who hadn't voiced an opinion on anything so far, who had sunk right back down into bed a moment after I came in and not said a single word. I turn my head and address the only silent one.

"Jaike," I say, stepping over to the side of my bed. "Hey, Jaike, what are you doing? Your bed's right there, you know."

"I'll tell you what he's doing," Duncan says, smirking. "Trying to get out of the reaping in the most ridiculous way he could think of."

I raise an eyebrow, puzzled, until Jaike, staying so still that not even an eyelid twitches, mumbles something.

"Look at that," says Varun, leaning with his back up against the wall. "The corpse speaks."

"I don't understand even being alive," murmurs Jaike, his lips barely moving. "I've never seen the point of it. Better to die quietly than get butchered in the arena. Maybe…If I just lie here…and be really quiet…and don't…move…anything…I'll just…stop…living…"

I smirk, used to Jaike's extremely cynical attitude. He doesn't have a very optimistic view of life, but he knows that if he's too melodramatic about it we'll either ignore him or tease him about it. This is one of the times he doesn't mean to be taken seriously.

"Here's an idea, Jaike," I say airily. "Go die on your own bed."

He opens his mouth to mumble a retort, but I quickly slide my hands under his back and throw him up into the air and onto his own bed, placed right next to mine.

Jaike's dark eyes fly open and his mouth falls halfway open, making for a priceless expression as he flops down onto his lumpy mattress. He sits up, rubbing his head and glaring at me.

"That's it, Tenshi, you're out of my will," he says resentfully as the other boys roar with laughter.

I want to reply, but then I notice movement in the blankets behind Duncan. He turns and grimaces. "Oh, wonderful, we woke Clover up," he hisses. "Thanks, guys."

"You're welcome," says Ritch, "but it was a group effort; you shouldn't give us all the credit."

Duncan glares, but his face softens as his little sister stirs behind him. Clover's petite form emerges from under the blanket, with the sort of exhaustion on her face that only comes when you've been woken up too soon. "Duncan?" she asks blearily. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Clover," Duncan says, his voice gentler and kinder as it only gets when he talks to Clover. He puts his hand on her shoulder and tries to make her lie back down. However, Clover gets other ideas once she looks up and she notices me.

"Hi, Angelo!" she says, pushing herself up on her hands. I resist the urge to cringe when I see what Collusk did to her. Her whole cheek is marred with an ugly purplish-black bruise, and since she's tiny even for a ten-year-old, the wound covers almost half her face. That's probably why she's here instead of in her own dormitory like she's supposed to be – the other girls would be of comfort too, but she wanted the protection of her big brother.

I don't want to make sensitive little Clover feel any worse about how she now looks, I ignore the heavy feeling, like a guilty weight in my gut, and force a smile. "Good morning, Clover," I greet her.

"Are you and Sora okay?" she asks quickly. "The Peacekeepers came and they said they left you hurt, and we wanted to go help you but Jag told us not to or he'd call the Peacekeepers back, and we were so worried – "

Her voice is quick and her eyes wide with anxiety. "We're all right, Clover, don't worry," I reassure her.

"Oh, good! So…Did you bring us anything to eat?" she asks, which brings forth a new round of snickers throughout the room. "What?" Clover says indignantly. "That's what Angelo and Sora went out to get, and I'm hungry, aren't you?"

"The Peacekeepers attacked us…" I begin slowly.

Duncan raises an eyebrow. "So, did you bring us anything to eat?"

I grin, take out the fruit, and start breaking them into pieces and distributing them around the room. _They know us well_, I think. They know we're more often than not one step ahead of the Peacekeepers and will not let them down.

Ritch gives a victorious laugh as he takes a bite of peach. "We knew you'd have something for us. It'll take a lot more than Peacekeepers to keep you back, Angelo."

Varun smirks, nibbling a green grape. "Is there any such thing, I wonder?"

Jaike, abandoning his corpse act and sitting up to accept half a strawberry, sends a skeptical glare at Ritch. "Yes, in fact, there is," he says dryly. "It's called a bullet to the head. I've heard it's quite effective."

Chewing and soft conversation cease, and bodies tense and eyes narrow all throughout the room. On hearing the alarmed noise Clover makes, Duncan automatically snaps, "Shut up, Jaike."

Clover, having gotten over the small shock, considers Jaike's words instead of immediately denying them. "Well…it hasn't happened yet," she says in a hopeful tone. "Angelo knows not to go too far, so they won't kill him. If you do something bad many times, they just watch you. And they haven't killed anyone in a while. Maybe they think it's enough."

Clover, satisfied with her explanation, gives me a smile and goes back to her piece of melon. The rest of us exchange dark looks, knowing what could really happen. Clover's childish naivety means she doesn't really think about what bad things happen in our lives, preferring not to dwell on them for as long as she doesn't have to. As she gets older, she'll understand. The rest of us, however, are old enough and have lived with me long enough to understand completely. Sora and I are skilled and smart enough not to get caught breaking the law most of the time, but we've been caught a good amount of times over a period of about seven years.

The Peacekeepers marked us as troublemakers a long time ago, and they look on us with hatred and contempt because we so often outwit them and get away with what we do. But unfortunately, emotions like that coupled with the power they have over everyone could prove a fatal combination. Though we'd never stop doing what we do, both for our friends' needs and for our own, there is always the lingering fear at the back of our minds – which, incidentally, Jaike once remarked, is the place the bullet hits when they kill you – that one day we may get caught one time too many, and our luck will run out.

Although, this can be something of an advantage, in a way, as we find fear to be a very good motivator. It was partially fear of starvation that led Sora and I to learn to steal food in the first place; and now the fear of being caught and punished for our actions makes us be just that little bit more careful, a little bit more aware, and to take just one more look over our shoulders, with sharper sight, for any possible danger. It gives us both a bit of an edge, but it's also the shadow of fear that marks our every move.

For obvious reasons I prefer not to think about this, and so I shake my head and gesture for the others to drop the subject, taking a piece of dried plum for myself and tearing a bit out of it with my teeth. The rest do the same. They can think of nothing to change the subject to, though, so we simply sit eat our fruit in relative silence. As I do this, I look over each of my friends.

As it was his remark that brought on the tension, my eyes turn first to Jaike Zirant, Jag and Janera's son. Unlike the others, who are starting to talk again - albeit very quietly and uncomfortably seeing as it's hard to segue into another subject right after talk of being shot in the head before the whole district – Jaike remains silent, lying on his back and glaring up at the ceiling. He's only thirteen, the youngest of the group, and yet he's already written off life in this District as a pointless waste, and as a result is usually bitter, distrustful of most, and extremely cynical. Most of us try to stay somewhat optimistic, but Jaike chooses not to expend the effort.

To me he's a saddening sight. Sometimes I just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him out of it, but other times I feel similarly, and can hardly blame him for feeling the way he does. As he hasn't exactly grown up with the best parental role models – Jag wants his boy to grow up to be just like him, and Janera doesn't care about him one way or another - I've tried to fill that position as best I can, but even now I don't know if I've succeeded. He's a strong kid, but he never seems to see the bright side of things like we do. Mentally sighing, I look to the far side of the room for more positive personalities, and Ritch, Duncan, and Clover are perfect examples.

Ritch, with his omnipresent playful grin back on his face, is trying to tell Duncan an older joke of his that he thinks has still retained its charm. Duncan is smiling but paying him no mind, as his attention is all on his sister, who is chatting animatedly to him about something her teacher said in school yesterday. Mentally, I smile too. Ritch and Duncan are the pair I can usually count on to keep an optimistic outlook on things. Fifteen-year-old Ritch Cedar always has a smile on his face and a permanent spring in his step to go with it. He's proven himself to be a good actor, so one must wonder if he's really just faking it. But if he is I can't tell the difference between that and when he's actually being a positive person. Most of the time Ritch is bright and optimistic, and it rubs off on the people he's around – the quality I like best about him.

However, if there's a downside to Ritch's personality, it's the fact that he's naturally slim and light, and rather fragile if you come right down to it. To his credit, Ritch is exceptionally fast, but he's not very strong. This makes him a prime target for Peacekeepers looking for someone to abuse. He refuses to be beaten down emotionally, and will always see the good in things until the worst is thrown in his face. His satisfaction with his lot in life and how he can make good with it irritates them, and though he's fast enough to outrun and most of them when they decide to go after him, he's not strong enough to fight them off or endure their attacks if they do catch him. While I do worry about this a lot with Ritch, Duncan's a different story.

Duncan Félixe has never been the type to back down from anything, and while he is the optimistic type, he keeps spirits up in a different way than Ritch does. He's only sixteen, but he's so tall and brawny that he could easily pass for an adult. He's always been big, but the work his job entails – heavy lifting, managing difficult equipment, and similar things – has made him muscular and strong. I've seen the other boys he works with. A few are brash and outspoken like him, but most keep to themselves and use their strength for nothing other than their work. Duncan doesn't do that at all. He's proud of his strength, and he uses it all the time, whether he has to for his line of work or to keep his friends and sister safe, or he just wants to show off or mess around for kicks. But like Ritch's bright personality is countered by his physical weakness, Duncan's strength is countered by his short temper and quickness to fight.

Duncan is usually an easygoing person, but he'll lose it in a second if he sees someone hurting his loved ones, especially Clover. Aside from Sora and me, he's the one who's most likely to get in a mess with the Peacekeepers, or in any fight with anyone, really; I'm beginning to wonder if he actually enjoys it a little. They love looking for an excuse to punish him, as his strong will and confidence are similar to mine and irritate them just as much, but unlike me Duncan is painfully easy for them to goad into attacking. Scars from the many times he's challenged them to defend someone else are scatters all over his arms, torso, and back, and there's three deep scars across his right cheek from when a Peacekeeper let one of his dogs loose on him and it clawed his face. However, though he is young, Duncan is one of the strongest people I know, and in every fight, whether he loses or not, he makes sure to give his opponents (as he puts it) marks to match his own.

Finally, I look at Varun Zephero, who is, as usual, quiet and observing everything from his bed on the opposite side of the room, with the constant still, waiting posture of a hunting cat. Varun is my age, seventeen, and he is my and Sora's closest friend, who we've known since we were four. Though I've never told him, it's his attitude of calm determination I've been trying to adopt since I met him. Varun is the least confrontational of our group; he'll stand his ground and fight when he needs to (in fact he's the most skilled fighter of all of us), but doesn't do anything to incite conflict like the rest of us. He's not much of a talker, but he always looks as though he's deep in thought, and so when he does speak, his words usually have a lot of thought and meaning behind them. He's very serious and pragmatic, and he frequently seems slightly brooding and sad as well. He says that when he looks like that it doesn't mean he's upset, it's just the way he is, but I think there's another reason for it.

The rest of us came here because our parents died, save for Jaike and his little sister Jordan, who are here because their parents run the place. Sora's parents were murdered, as was my father, and my mother died in childbirth. Ritch's mother and father were killed in a terrible fire that broke out in the cornfields during a dry spell. It was one of the worst the district had ever seen, and it spread too fast for any of the workers to escape. Duncan and Clover's mother died of tuberculosis and their father had it as well; he tried as best he could to survive and care for them, but he died as well, and Duncan took over as his sister's caretaker. He was able to keep the secret that they had no parents for about a year and a half, and then the district found out and sent them both here. But Varun is a different case.

As Janera explained to him when he was a child, and he later explained to us, he was left at the community home when he was six weeks old, with only a note that said his name. Varun was abandoned by his parents, and ever since he was old enough to understand what they had done, he's been brooding over it. He decided when he was eleven that he wanted to find his parents himself, but for six years he's had no luck. He tried tracking the surname, but found no one of that name anywhere or anytime, and he suspects it may have been made up. As a result of growing up abandoned by his parents and with no one loving him except for his friends, Varun devotes himself to two things in his life: first, to find anything he can of his family, if only to just _know _and not constantly have it gnawing at him; and second, to protect his loved ones at all costs, since they're the only things he's ever cherished or who have cherished him. Now, Varun catches my eye and returns my stare, his dark forest-green eyes boring into my gold ones with their calm intensity.

One dark brown eyebrow raises in question, and we've known each other long enough to be able to read each other perfectly without words. '_You're sure you're all right?'_ Varun wants to know. I nod reassuringly, and then I reach for my wrist. My fingers brush the small, makeshift wooden box tied tightly on a string around it – my most precious possession. A few years ago, I "borrowed" a knife from the kitchen and carved two thick pieces of wood out of it, which I attached with more string and put in the small drawings I've done of all my loved ones. I did this because after my father died, I started forgetting things about him, most prominently what he looked like. So I drew detailed pictures of everyone I love when I could find the time at school, the only time I had access to paper and a pencil, so that if anything happened to them I could preserve them in some way and I would never forget. Varun knows that Sora is the one I've drawn most, and so he associates the "box" with her. I touch the wooden surface slowly and deliberately, and then gesture to the half-open door with a raised eyebrow of my own, asking Varun if he wants to check on Sora now. He nods and starts for the door.

"Varun, are you going to see Sora?" Clover asks brightly. When both he and I nod, she asks, "Is she all right too?"

"Of course, Clover, she's perfectly fine," Duncan assures her before I can open my mouth.

"About the same as me," I say, not wanting to sugarcoat anything.

"Not so fine," mutters Varun.

"Well, you'll be oka – Oh!" Clover breaks off with a startled yelp, and her eyes are all of a sudden wide with terror, and she darts behind her much bigger brother. As Duncan follows her gaze to the doorway just behind me, his face contorts with anger. Before I can ask them what's wrong, I hear a voice as unwelcome as a Peacekeeper's behind me.

"So as of now, there's two kids beat up by Peacekeepers this reaping day," says Janera with the air of a cat playing with a mouse in its claws. "How about we go for seven?" I turn to see her with a smirk on her face I recognize, a familiar 'I've-got-you-now' expression.

"Hasn't there been enough bloodshed from here today, Janera?" Varun says softly.

"Well, I don't know," Janera says, putting her hand on her chin and pretending to think about it. "Since angel boy here's been a lot more trouble than he's worth…" Her eyes pass to each person in the room, none of whom moved or said a word, lingering on the incriminating bits of fruit in their hands.

"And you and Dad missed it when they got beat the first time," mutters Jaike.

Janera narrows her dark blue eyes at her son, who glares right back at her with his identical ones. "Shut your mouth, boy, you'll just get yourself in deeper," she snaps, glaring around the room to show that her words apply to all of us. When she turns back to me, her expression reverts back to the smirk. "I have to say, angel boy, you're taking this quite well. I'm glad I only have to deal with you now, and let the Peacekeepers deal with songbird's shrieking and carrying on. There'll certainly be a long delay for the reaping, what with the Peacekeepers having…let's see now…" She starts absently counting on her fingers. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, that's all of you plus songbird and Clover…And then there are the rest of her roommates too, which makes…Eight, nine, and ten…So they'll have ten public punishments to get done before the reaping. Such a troublesome delay," she adds, but her anticipatory tone contradicts her words.

"Hey, Janera…What about Jordan?" Duncan asks, reminding Janera that she's included her eleven-year-old daughter, who she has clearly shown that she prefers over her son, in her list of potential victims of the whip.

Janera's eyes narrow at him. "That's not your concern, Félixe," she snarls.

"The hell it's not - !" Duncan leaps up and starts to yell, but breaks off when I quickly put a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," I say firmly, and then turn to meet Janera's eyes. I recognize the look on Janera's face in more ways than one. I recognize an opportunity. With Jag, there's no way to talk your way out: he yells and he taunts and then he calls the Peacekeepers, in whichever order. But with Janera, there's a chance to bargain.

"Janera, Varun's right," I say carefully, as though I'm dealing with a predatory animal instead of another person. "There's been enough bloodshed today."

She gives me a poisonous smile. "Oh, but I'm afraid that's not for you to decide, angel boy," she says.

"I'm completely aware of that," I say. "But it's reaping day, and isn't that enough to bring pain for now? You certainly don't need to bring more into this day."

"And just how do you plan to stop me from doing just that?" she inquires. "You do deserve it, after all, and I would enjoy it."

"If that's what you want, I'll admit I can't stop you from doing so," I say, and then I pull what's left of the fruit I took from my pocket. "However, I can make your silence worth it if you don't."

Janera raises an eyebrow at the fruit and then at me, not saying anything but visibly interested. I keep silent and stay expressionless, as do the rest of the room's occupants. I resist the urge to give an identical smile to Janera's, because that would rub her the wrong way and ruin everything. I know that offering her stolen food could very well land me in deeper trouble, but I also know from experience that with Janera, that won't happen. As a result of her position here, she does have access to a bit more food than the rest of us, but in the long run that's not much of an advantage. She's as hungry for a tasty piece of fruit, of the kind that never comes around in our daily rations, as the rest of us and unlike Jag she's not too proud to take it if it comes from me. I've done this before to get out of trouble with her, and I know from experience that it usually works.

And it looks like this time is no exception. Janera, after a few moments of deliberation, takes a quick step towards me and snatches the food from my open palm.

"Pleasure doing business with you, angel boy," she says with a smirk, as though she's the one who's gotten away with what is technically a criminal offense, and she turns on her heel and saunters out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ritch and Clover lets out huge sighs of relief, as Varun and I let our breaths out softly. Jaike lies back down on his bed, turning on his side with his back to us, but not before I catch the trace of anger on his face. Duncan glares at the door, still upset as well, while rubbing Clover's shoulder to calm her. Varun makes for the door to go and see Sora as he was doing before Janera walked in on us, but he's barely touched the knob before it swings open again, and he has to jump back to avoid getting slammed with the heavy piece of wood.

"Are you guys all right?" shouts Sora, throwing her whole upper body into the room, one hand gripping the doorknob and the other one gripping the door frame. "Jordan heard what was going on and she came running to tell me and so – "

"Relax, Sora," I say, and she stands up straight and looks curious. "I paid Janera off with what food I had left."

"And she left just as happy as if she'd gotten to see the living daylights whipped out of us all," snarls Duncan, sounding disgusted.

"We're okay, but are you?" Varun asks, putting a hand on Sora's shoulder with a worried look. Our close friends are all like family here, but to me it's Varun and Sora who appear most like brother and sister. Varun's looked after Sora like a little sister for years, and he's as protective of her as Duncan is of Clover.

"I'm fine, Varun," Sora assures him, "just like always."

"I just like to make sure, is all," Varun says, looking her over to judge the severity of her wounds, and then giving me a glance to compare them to mine.

"I know." Sora gives him a smile before turning to me. "Would you guys mind if I took Angelo from you for another few minutes?"

Duncan, Ritch, and Jaike smirk and snicker at her words, finding another meaning in Sora's request for alone time with me. Clover looks confused at their amusement, while Sora and I glare, and I think I see Varun look somewhat disappointed for a moment before doing the same as us. Sora grabs my hand, saying, "I'll take that as a yes," and pulls me out of the room. As she leads me down the hall, I hear Ritch call after us.

"Hey, don't take too long; before we know it it's going to be time for the reaping!"

"All right!" Sora yells back to indicate she heard. She clearly has every intention of hurrying whatever she wants to do up, as she's running down the halls and up the stairs at the end of the last one, the stairway which leads to the rooftop.

Once we get there Sora lets go of my hand, and I raise my eyebrows at her when she turns to glance at me. We don't come up here that often, but when we do it's usually because either Sora or I have something important to do or say. I wonder what she's up to.

Sora suddenly looks a little awkward, and she drops her eyes for a moment. We stay in silence for a moment as she walks over to the opposite side of the rooftop. She seems nervous for some reason, which is very unlike her, and my curiosity is sparked. I move hesitantly to her side, and to break the silence I search around in my mind for anything I could say.

"It's still beautiful today," I say, gesturing to the sky and knowing it's stupid to be talking about the weather, but it's the first thing I can think of to say. And it's true, also. The sunrise was lovely, and now the sky is a clear, bright blue with the clouds rolling across it in unique shapes.

Sora nods and makes a little noise of agreement. "It's nice," she says. "But not for long. Look over there." She points in the direction of the northern corn fields, where I can see an imperious layer of dark gray against the horizon.

"A storm coming?" I say, and chuckle darkly. "It looks pretty bad already. And with our peoples' luck, it'll be pouring all over the district by reaping time."

"Yes," Sora says, and I'm surprised at how potent the note of sorrow in her voice is. We've worked all day in torrential rainstorms a few times before. She was never this upset over it; so is something else on her mind? "Angelo…" she begins tentatively. "I know this sounds so stupid and far-fetched, but…I've been having a bad feeling about this reaping for the past couple weeks."

"That's not stupid or far-fetched in the least," I say, confused. "Don't we all feel that way?"

"I know, but…I just feel like there's an axe over my head about to fall. Figuratively, of course," she adds quickly.

"You think something bad is going to happen today?" I say, and from the look on her face I can tell I've hit on the source of her fear.

"My stomach's twisting…my heart's wrenching…my blood's gone icy…Yes, I feel like something horrible is about to happen. It's a feeling of – Oh, what the hell do you call it – premonition," she says. She looks at me with the kind of pain in her eyes I only ever saw once, when she ran to me for comfort when her parents were killed. "I feel like we're going to lose someone today, someone precious," she whispers.

The vulnerability and barely veiled terror in her voice have shaken me, as it's so unlike Sora. Letting down her emotional guard is something Sora just doesn't do. If she really believes one of us is going to be lost to the Games today, it would be her worst nightmare come true. The same goes for the rest of us, and the bad thing is it is entirely rational. We all have taken out tesserae to support ourselves – something Jag and Janera never objected to, provided we forked over a share of the grain and oil to them – and so we all have many more entries in the reaping balls than is normal. We're all afraid that we or someone we care for will be sacrificed for the Capitol's entertainment, but for some reason Sora seems convinced it will happen today, and it scares her even more than she is letting on.

I wrap my arms tightly around her out of both protective instinct and that I don't like to see her so unnerved. "Sora…" I begin, unsure of how to comfort her. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what to say to you. I could tell you that of course all of us are safe…but I don't want to lie to you, because none of us are safe."

Sora, instead of tensing up as I expect, fiercely returns my embrace. She rests her head on my shoulder, and answers, "I know; I just wanted to tell _someone, _no matter how it sounds. I know how ridiculous it is for me to act this way." I hear her swallow, and then feel her cheek against my own as she lifts her lips to my ear. "I won't lose you," she whispers. "I won't let you go." Then she says four more words that make me freeze in place: _"I love you, Angelo."_

Feeling the sudden stiffness of my body, Sora pulls her head back, sees my startled expression, and she apparently gets the wrong idea. She turns her eyes away from me and mutters, "Sorry." Embarrassed, she drops her arms and tries to step back, but her awkward feelings turn to surprise when I pull her back and press my lips against hers. I feel her mouth form into a smile as she drapes her arms around my shoulders and leans into the kiss. We stay locked in our passionate embrace for about a minute, until I finally break it, letting a grin spread across my face.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to say that to you," I tell Sora, and she smirks.

"Well, then I'm glad to be the one to finally get it out there," she says, a trace of triumph in her voice.

"Yeah, me too," I laugh. Then my face reverts back to its serious expression when I remember that this isn't what she brought me up here to tell me, and I feel bad that I haven't given her at least some form of comfort. "Sora, I can't tell you to stop worrying about this bad feeling you have, because I know you can't. But I can tell you this – If any of us are reaped, we won't just roll over and die, if that's what you pictured."

"Of course I didn't," Sora cuts in indignantly. "None of you ever would. If you really want to know, I actually thought of – " She catches herself and breaks off midsentence. "Never mind, I think you can guess the rest. But I know you wouldn't go down without a fight; is that what you were going to say?"

"Right," I agree. "Sora, none of us would leave our family short one member willingly. We'd fight every minute to get back home and keep us whole. You know, out of all those in the district, we're some of the best equipped to win the Games."

Sora looks confused for a moment, and then she starts to nod. "Oh, I get it," she says. She sounds hopeful, but the speed and pitch of her voice suggest something else. "Varun, who can fight brilliantly and keep a clear head all the time; Ritch with his speed, he could get out of anything; Jaike would probably be the cleverest tribute there; of course Duncan with both brawns and brain, unlike most Careers…And then there's you. I doubt even the best of tributes can fly through the trees like you and I do. And combined with your skill, there's nothing that could stop you."

"There is that," I admit. "So…I won't say there's no need to worry, but I hope it reassures you to know that if one of us did get reaped, we'd try with everything we had to win."

"I know you would," says Sora softly, her gray-green eyes fixed intensely on my amber ones. "You'd never leave us incomplete."

"Of course not." I move my hand up from her hips to her face, and gently tuck the one lock of gold hair that always comes loose from her long ponytail behind her ear. "Our friends all mean the world to me, and…I love you more than anything, Sora." I chuckle before continuing. "You've got no idea – what am I saying, of course you do – how wonderful it feels to tell you that. And speaking for myself, though I'm sure they all think this way too, I'd go through anything if it meant that I could stay the rest of my life with you all."

"You usually don't talk this much," Sora says, "but based on what you've been saying I think you should do it more often. My mother once said the right words can work magic on people." She leans closer to me and her voice softens. "I think she was completely right."

I smile as she does too, and as if the same thought has occurred to both of us at the same time, we both move in for another kiss, to enjoy one another even more than ever before. But just when our lips are so close that I can smell the scent of fresh fruit still on her breath, a shrill call of our names startles us into jumping back.

"Angel boy! Songbird!" Janera shrieks from the stairwell. "What are you two doing up there? We need to be at the square in less than an hour! You've wasted enough time, now get down here and make yourselves camera-ready!"

Sora grimaces. "Thanks a lot, Janera. Thanks a bunch."

"You damn well better be thanking me," Janera snaps. "The other scum in this district might not care how the Capitolians see us, but it'll be a cold day in hell before I let you be broadcast to the whole nation like them and have it connected with me!"

"We've got time, and we would have come on our own if you'd let us alone," I point out.

"Of course you would," she sneers. "I doubt it, based on the noises I heard you two making a minute ago. I swear, you two better not bring any babies in this house or I promise you, I will –"

"All right!" Sora yells, a furious crimson blush spreading on her tanned face. "You're reading way too far into this, Janera!"

Janera snickers, says "Whether I am or not, you'd better knock off whatever you were doing and move it!", and then we hear her heavy footsteps descending the stairs to go find someone else to yell at.

When she's gone, Sora and I glance at each other, and she sighs. "Guess we'd better go then," she says. I let her step out of my arms and I follow her back the way we came. As my eyes take in her form, I suppress my own deep sigh. All my insides were tingling and my blood was racing as I anticipated the pleasant sensation of Sora's soft lips against mine. Oh, well. Perhaps I'll be able to sneak in one more kiss before the reaping, for luck. And when my thoughts are returned to the reaping, another feeling floods my body as I look at Sora. I love her too much to let the Capitol separate us. If worst comes to worst, and I do end up in the Hunger Games, I can be sure of one thing – I will not let anything get in the way of my return home. If the other tributes believed they could stop me, they'd have another thing coming. I would turn off my emotions as I've learned to do so well, and show them exactly what I will do to keep my family whole.

**~0~**

**A/N - Why do these chapters end up so long? I don't mean for them to, they just stretch on and on! Taiga's POV was supposed to be a part of it too, and I cut that off and made it its own chapter to make this one shorter, but that backfired a bit…And speaking of her…**

**Name meanings – **

**-A taiga is an evergreen forest in the tundra. It has no relation to Taiga's character, but I was looking for a name for the character at the time and in science class I thought it sounded nice for her and so it stuck. Weird, hm? Her last name, Vernesh, is made up and has no meaning.**

**-Brodie, according to various websites, can either mean "ditch" or "earth ridge."**

**-Jag and Janera are made up names, but Jaike (sans the 'i') means "supplanter" and Jordan means "descends" or "flows down." Their last name Zirant is derived from the Swahili word 'zira' (which I learned from the Lion King II character) which means "hate," and applies more to Jag and Janera than to their kids.**

**-Varun means "rain god," and his last name Zephero is derived from 'zephyr', which means a light wind.**

**-Duncan means "dark warrior" and Clover is named after the flower. Their last name, Félixe, is derived from the name Felix, which means "happy and prosperous."**

**-Ritch (sans the 't') means "rich and powerful ruler", and his last name, Cedar, comes from the kind of tree.**

**On a side note…I happened to have a Disney playlist going while I was writing the last part of this chapter (sorry if that part's not very good, by the way, I'm new to writing romance), and One Jump Ahead from Aladdin started playing. Now, Angelo doesn't have much in common with Aladdin at all…But that doesn't mean I didn't end up imagine him singing it!**

**Angelo: **_**Gotta keep one jump ahead of the breadline**_

_**One swing ahead of the sword**_

_**I steal only what I can't afford**_

_**That's everything!**_

_**One jump ahead of the lawmen**_

_**That's all, and that's no joke**_

_**These guys don't appreciate I'm broke!**_

**Peacekeepers: **_**Riffraff! Street rat!**_

_**Scoundrel! Take that!**_

**Angelo: **_**Just a little snack, guys…**_

**Peacekeepers: **_**Rip him open, take it back, guys!**_

**Angelo: **_**I can take a hint, gotta face the facts –**_

_**You're my only friend, Sora!**_

**Taiga&Clover: **_**Oh, it's sad Angelo's hit the bottom!**_

_**He's become a one-man rise in crime!**_

**Janera: **_**I'd blame the parents but he hasn't got 'em!**_

**Angelo: **_**Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat**_

_**Tell you all about it when I got the time!**_

**Er…Anyway. I would really appreciate reviews! I want to know if you're enjoying the story, what you like about it, which character you like best, what you think I should work on…In the case of that last one, tips would be very helpful. So come on, please review!**

**Angelo: Now, Kaen…**_***sings* Let's not be too hasty…**_

**Sora: **_***puts her arms around Angelo's shoulders and swings her leg onto his hip* Still I think he's rather tasty!**_

**Angelo: Uh, Sora? Please don't ever do that again.**

**Sora: **_***smirks* **_**Sorry, Angelo. I couldn't resist.**

**Kaen: All right, enough, you guys. Readers – I'm done with lengthy OC introductions for the moment, and now we're getting into the reapings! Next chapter will bring Tirion and Kaia back into the spotlight, and trust me, it'll be a much quicker update!**

**R&R?**

**~0~**


	9. The Reaping  District 12

**Tirion's POV**

I sit in the shade of the elderly, gnarled oak tree that stands somewhat forlornly a distance from the house. This is a luxury unavailable to most others in the district; since our house is right on the edge of the Meadow and this tree has conveniently taken root on the far end of it. Our families' meal is over, and all conversation unrelated to the reaping has been exhausted. There is nothing left to do but wait, and I felt uncomfortable in the tense atmosphere in the house, so I announced that I needed some fresh air and came outside. Absently, I gaze up and stare at the huge, billowing white clouds that travel lazily across the perfectly blue sky, illuminated by the bright sun far above. It is, to put it simply, a nice day. A beautiful day. If only, I think, if only it could weren't spoiled by the reaping, the chilling gray shadow that looms invisibly over us.

Soft sounds on my right side catch my attention, and I turn to see Kaia taking the last few steps across the dry gold summer grass to my side. She silently sits next to me, and after a moment, she leans up against my side; with her head on top of my shoulder and her right hand on the front of it. We don't speak; just derive solace from each other's closeness. I think about how different our feelings about it must be. Kaia just wants her best friend close to her on this day, when the fear and apprehension of hundreds pervade the air, and closeness is natural and comforting. She doesn't know the deep, beautiful contentedness that washes through me from her light touch. This feels so right, I think. This is the way it should be. Just us, together. Always. And it seems so oddly easy, having her here beside me, so close and warm…

Suddenly, the silence is broken by the crunching of dead grass under small, fast-moving feet. Both of us look up and see Rowan trotting toward us, clutching something in his hand.

"Here," he says, handing me the object. "Mama said I had to bring it out to you."

Kaia and I glance down at it and I recognize the white paper packet of cookies. I open it carefully and hear Kaia give a little gasp of surprise at its contents. Rowan looks a little envious, but not very upset. "I wanted to eat them, but Mama and Liana wanted you guys to have them," he informs us.

I frown. "You can have some if you want, Rowan," I say, and take one of the cookies out to break a piece off for him. But Rowan shakes his head, his unruly hair – which is a far lighter tan than his sister's – waving with the movement.

"No thanks," he says, surprising me. "You can have them. I don't mind, because I've got this." He opens his mouth and, taking great care to not drop whatever is on it, extends his tongue and reveals one of the candies, the blue one.

"Oh, all right then," I say, putting the cookie back in the paper. "Do you like it, Rowan?"

After retracting his tongue and shifting the candy to the inside of his cheek, Rowan grins widely and nods vigorously. "It's really sweet!" he says happily. "It's the best thing I've ever eaten in my whole life!"

Kaia smiles beside me. "That's great. Hey," she says, noticing something and looking a little confused. "Rowan…did the stuff in the candy…turn your tongue blue?"

"Huh?" Rowan, with great effort, sticks out his tongue until he can examine it for himself. When he sees the blue-stained tip of his tongue, his gray eyes widen in surprise. "Wow!" he exclaims, and immediately he turns on his heel and dashes back into the house, yelling excitedly, "Mama! Mama! My tongue's blue now!", his speech somewhat impaired by the candy he's still sucking on.

I laugh, though it's quiet and brief as always, and Kaia's bright smile draws a small smile out of me. Then a tiny crinkling sound from my hand draws our attention to the packet of cookies in it. "We should probably eat these now," I say. Kaia looks at them, and I see her swallow as her mouth waters from the sight.

"They do look delicious," she agrees. "How did you manage to get them anyway?" I tell her about my encounter with Lek. "Your mother's right," she remarks when I've finished. "He's a sweet boy. I suppose that comes from living in a sweetshop all his life, huh?" she jokes.

"Yeah," I agree. "Which one do you want?" I ask, indicating the two different cookies. She deliberates for a moment before pointing to her choice. "That one, I think."

"Sugar, hm? Excellent choice," I say, taking the cookie and holding it out to her. It's close to her mouth, so she takes a playful bite out of it before taking it from my hand. I take the chocolate cookie and take a large bite out of it. It's thick and sweet, and the delicious sensation spreads over my whole mouth. An incoherent sound of pleasure comes from my throat as I savor the treat, and I hear a similar noise from Kaia. I glance at her and see that she's taken a more practical approach to her snack, taking tiny but still satisfying bites to make it last.

"You like it?" I ask, knowing that it's an unnecessary question.

"Oh, yes!" Kaia says delightedly. "Thank you."

"No problem," I assure her. "It's a nice treat for me too."

"You know, I never had one of these before," she remarks. "Neither of us has." She sighs, and I wonder what's on her mind. "I remember my father was all set to buy me one special for my birthday when I was little, but the baker back then had raised the price for customers from the Seam. He didn't like our kind much."

I grimace and nod. The baker of almost ten years ago, when I was first learning to hunt and gather, and to trade with the town residents, did not take particularly well to people of the Seam. I still remember my first encounter with him, when I tried to exchange some very nice and perfectly fresh wild turkey for a few of his rolls. I internally wince; I hadn't known multiple blows from a rolling pin would ache so much or leave such nasty bruising, but the baker obviously hadn't known how to tell rotten meat from fresh and so his outburst over my attempt at trade was entirely unreasonable.

Kaia sees my indignant expression and giggles. "Oh, still upset about that?" she asks.

"No," I reply honestly; I haven't had much reason to be upset with the former baker since his daughter and son – who had no qualms about cooperating with a young hunter from the Seam – took over his business. "Just a little annoyed. Which is a bit stupid, seeing as it's nothing to get worked up over now."

"I don't think so," says Kaia. "Well, it's better now anyway. There's no reason to think about it at all, anyway; I don't know why I brought it up."

"Strange things often come up when you're looking for something to make conversation with," I tell her.

"That is true," she says. "Especially when there isn't really much left to say."

I'm about to reply, when I see her expression. She looks odd, somehow – nervous, pensive, and something I can't quite place combined. I get the sense Kaia has found something more she wants to say, and so I remain silent, and wait patiently for a minute until she finds her voice again.

"Well…" she begins hesitantly. "Now that you've got me talking…There is one thing I've wanted to talk about…" She turns to gaze at me with a strange, curious look in her eyes. "How old were we when we met? About five?" When I nod, she goes on. "Remember how?"

"Yes," I say, wondering where she's going with this. "Don't you?"

"Of course!" she says, smiling at me. "It was…early summer, I think. I was going to meet up with my father on his way home from the mines. I was running along the fence, and I saw a very unusual sight – someone on the other side of it, up in the apple trees gathering up all the ripe ones."

I laugh lightly, remembering how surprised a much younger Kaia had looked as she tentatively approached the fence. "You had the funniest bug-eyed look on your face," I say. "I would have laughed if I weren't so scared that someone saw me."

"You know I wouldn't have ratted you out," she says. "It was just like I said then, I didn't want to see anyone hurt, lawbreaker or not. You know, when you begged me not to tell anyone," she adds teasingly.

"Hey, I was five," I say defensively. "And I did not _beg. _I was just emphasizing my point."

"Oh, of course you were," she teases. "Though I have to say, I was a bit taken aback by how nervous you got about me. I just wanted to know what you were doing on the other side of the fence. And you came down from the tree and told me – well, after I was able to get it into your head that I wasn't going to tell the Peacekeepers – how you came to pick some of the apples for your family."

"Actually, I told you rather a lot that I wasn't exactly supposed to be telling people," I remark. "What I was doing, how long I'd been doing it, who I was…All that."

"You knew you could trust me, didn't you?" Kaia says.

"There was that, of course…And I was very young, and so wasn't quite as careful as I ought to have been," I say truthfully.

"Well, you were certainly as generous then as you are now," she says after considering this a moment. "Maybe that's not the term for it, but it sure seemed like it then. When I asked you if I could have one of the apples, since you had more than I'd ever seen in my short life, you agreed right away and passed a nice one through the fence."

"Chalk it up to the bit of childhood innocence that wasn't lost by then," I say. "No offense, but you looked very skinny and hungry, and I knew what that felt like, so I wanted to help you out."

"Maybe it was innocent kindness…Like how Lek gave you the candy and cookies this morning, right?" she says. I nod, only now realizing the connection, like her. "I know that just a few years later, you wouldn't have even thought of doing that unless the other person had something to trade you. But still. I know it sounds a little sentimental, but it was then that I knew what a good person you were."

"You're right, that is sentimental," I tease.

"But it's true," Kaia persists. "And that's how we became friends, anyway. We started talking after you gave me the apple, and it was like we'd known each other all our lives instead of barely a minute. I remember thinking to myself that we could be great, great friends."

"The perfect friends," I say softly, feeling a part of me sink inside at the word. Friends…Only friends, she said…

Kaia goes on, oblivious to the effect her words have had. Then again, I can't blame her; I never show my emotions outwardly if I can help it, so usually nobody can tell what I feel from just looking at me. "We got along so well already, we'd probably have gone on chatting all afternoon if your – "

Kaia catches herself and quickly stops talking before saying the next word, feeling how my body has gone rigid against hers and realizing her mistake. My eyes are shut, but I feel her turning around to look at me. "Tirion?" she asks in a small voice, and I picture the worried look on her face. I don't answer her, because I don't want something to come out of my mouth that I'll regret saying to her later. I know what she was going to say. Not long after I'd given her the apple and we'd struck up a conversation, my father, Saine, emerged from the woods and stopped us. Like me, he'd been worried about Kaia revealing our secret to the Peacekeepers, but calmed down when we explained what was going on, and when Kaia left to go meet up with her father after promising to keep our hunts secret. After that day, we talked at school and started spending time together, and without either of us realizing when, we became close friends. Not long after, our fathers happened to meet while on duty in the mines, and became friends as well, bringing our families close together.

This was all well and good, but after what my father did to us – getting himself and dozens of other people, innocent or not so much, killed and the district far worse off from then on than we once were, and my family left disgraced and with the heavy task of building back the trust of the rest of Twelve's populace – just for the sake of his empty delusions of bringing justice and better lives to our district. The Capitol declared him the worst of traitors, and though I hate to agree with them, I did as well. Not a traitor to the nation – to me and everyone else he falsely claimed to love and care for. My father's crime against me was that he valued his own selfish, foolish desires over what was truly important, and no one, least of all I, will ever forgive him even after his death.

Incredibly, my family did not completely agree. My younger brother, Seth, and my mother refused to say anything bad about my father, and so did Kaia, Rowan, Farrah, and Kaia's own father Pearce before he succumbed to a lung disease from years in the mines. They would try and talk to me about him, to convince me that he had been a good person with the best intentions behind his actions. But I would not be moved. Hearing my father's name sent the images of the blood, the panic, the fire, the deaths, and all the devastation he had caused, and I'd get so furious at that and lash out fiercely at whoever was trying to talk to me. Everyone quickly learned not to mention my father around me, and that was fine with me, as I wanted to banish him from my life forever. However, on occasion, one of them will forget and mention him, as Kaia has just done. I sense her apprehension and know she is afraid I will react that way once more.

Well, she's right to be nervous. Even now, eight years later, the mere mention of Saine Sagitto makes my blood burn with rage. I take one more moment, body unnaturally still and eyes shut tight, to steady my breathing and calm myself. When I feel ready, I slowly let out a long, deep breath. "You're right," I say in a low voice, trying to gloss it over and make it sound as if she never mentioned my father, that' we should just forget about it. "We probably would have stayed there, talking all day."

I open my eyes and look at Kaia, who appears to understand that I'm not angry with her. She has relaxed, but her face is grave. "I'd love to stay here all day with you too," she says, looking downward to the dry gold grass at her feet, and I am surprised to hear the tone of her voice. She speaks with unusual softness in her voice, and with the air of a person who's made up their mind about something.

"I think…That day, I was the luckiest person in Panem, to catch sight of you and meet you," she goes on quietly. "That was all so long ago, and so much has happened. We've been friends for, for twelve years now; I can hardly believe it. We've been through so much, done and said so much, and now we know each other better than we know ourselves. Tirion…"

She straightens up and turns her clear gray eyes directly into my own, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. "I…I don't know if it's the right time to say this, but there's something I want to tell you," she says. Her gaze is calm but determined, and I feel as if it's piercing me to my core. "I've waited for a while for it – okay, a _lot _more than a while – but since it's so close to the reaping I feel like this could be my one and only chance, and I can't afford to wait anymore." She takes a long breath, similar to the one I let out just a minute ago. "Tirion – "

But she's barely able to get my name out before the loud creak of the front door opening makes us both turn. My mother has come out of the house with a stony face. She is followed by an equally grim-looking Farrah, carrying Rowan, who is clutching his mother's dress in his small fists and resting his head on her shoulder. Even he, the still-carefree four-year-old, has a sad and resigned expression. I look past them into the house to read the elderly, battered grandfather clock in the kitchen and see that it's thirty minutes to one.

It's time. Kaia and I exchange apprehensive glances. The reaping is upon us.

~0~

We are silent as we make our way down the street to the square. What words are there for this day? Kaia and I stride in front of our mothers, trying to keep our features emotionless masks in preparation for the cameras. As we near the square, we are enveloped in the dismal throng of District 12's youth. My mother and I share one somber glance – Kaia doing the same thing with hers, and adding a quick ruffle of Rowan's hair – and Kaia and I go alone to the sign-in area. When we step up to the table at the head of the line, the Peacekeeper gives us a disdainful look. I extend my arm, and the man's instrument buzzes as he sticks the needle into my fingertip and presses the bead of blood onto the sign-in sheet. I only twitch a bit at the small twinge of discomfort, but I hear Kaia give a hiss of pain as her blood is drawn. She's not as used to pain as I am.

"Go ahead," says the Peacekeeper gruffly when he's done with us. Kaia squeezes my hand as we go together into the roped-off area near the front of the crowd for the seventeen-year-olds. Whatever she had wanted to say to me before, the words are apparently gone now. I look up at the stage, and my eyes are fixed on the tremendous glass ball on the left side of it, which holds the names of the possible male tributes. I think of the thousands of slips of paper in that ball. Compared with all the other slips in there, the odds of one of the thirty-seven with my name on it – six of them because they were required, the rest for the tesserae I've taken out for myself, my mother, and Kaia and her family, since I firmly refused to let Kaia take any of her own, even when she offered to – are actually relatively slim. There are hundreds of other boys with their names in there, and most with tesserae of their own as well. But then again, when are the odds ever in the favor of a person from District 12, and from the Seam to boot?

Our attention is directed from the glass balls to the two people emerging from the Justice Building. The first is Rosiel Frieze, our Capitol escort. She beams brilliantly at the solemn crowd below her, looking as if she's overjoyed to see us all, but she fools no one. District 12 repulses her and all she wants is to get a promotion and be rid of the lot of us for the rest of her career. I study Rosiel, and find that once again her appearance is unchanged. She's dressed in a vivid magenta suit, with carnation pink high heels and bejeweled gloves on her hands and bangles on her arms. Tattoos swirl beneath her eyes in iridescent rainbow colors. Her thick hair is shoulder-length, and was a blinding lemon-yellow in her first year here, but has since been dyed what was likely meant to be strawberry-blond, but looks more like a salmon color.

Rosiel finds herself glamorous in her fancy outfit and accessories, like any Capitolian. But to us, she and all her kind look like freaks. For a while when I was young, I wondered how they couldn't realize how they look, silly at best and hideous at worst. But then I realized that if they can enjoy watching two dozen children slaughter one another and celebrate it like a festivity, they're certainly not going to realize how utterly ridiculous they appear to normal people. I glance at Kaia, whose reaping outfit is much simpler: a light and soft looking dress of a pale green color – that reminds me of the glimpses of the sea we get when watching the District 4 reapings – that hangs smoothly to her calves. Her only accessory is a bright blue gem hung on a black string around her neck, which she found embedded in gravel near a river during one of the times I tried teaching her to hunt. She dubbed it riverstone, which I know can't be its true name, but sounds nice. She looks so pretty in such a simple outfit, a concept most Capitolians can't fathom. In my eyes, she is more beautiful than all of them in their best fineries combined.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Rosiel sings out. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Her words ring out over a silent district. My mother says that the several escorts in the years before Rosiel also used that greeting, one after the other. No escort stays in District 12 for very long, as we are so undesirable to their kind. I don't find it very insulting, as I see no reason to take their opinions into account. I find it more interesting that their stock greeting never changes, and that it will probably stay the same for all eternity. What do the opinions of such shallow people matter?

Rosiel takes her seat to make way for our stern-faced mayor, a man in his late twenties named Delroy Neximus. He strides, unsmiling and businesslike as always, and in his deep stentorian voice he recites the history of Panem. How a torrent of disasters devastated the world of our ancestors. How a long, bloody war broke out over the meager resources left when the disasters had subsided. How the nation of Panem rose up from the chaos, with the Capitol reigning supreme. I tune it out now, as it's just one more part of the reaping process to endure. But when I was younger, I regarded this part of Panem's history with interest. I wondered about the world before ours. I wondered if it looked like it does now, and what the people were like and how they lived. And after the disasters and the wars, how exactly did the world end up this way, with thirteen poverty-stricken districts and a rich and all-powerful Capitol? It used to spark my curiosity, but I never think of it now if I can help it. The distant past doesn't matter in the here and now, and it's of no use in helping my family survive.

Mayor Neximus continues to read, telling us again how, eventually, the Dark Days were brought upon us, when the thirteen districts (apparently "ungrateful" for the Capitol's "generosity", according to the paper Mayor Neximus reads from) fought together against the might of the Capitol. How the twelve that still exist today were beaten into submission and the thirteenth was blown off the face of the earth, and its remains left to burn with toxic fumes. How, with the Treaty of Treason, new laws to prevent rebellions were established, and the Hunger Games came to be.

The Games. The ultimate method of torture, reminding all of us in the districts just how helpless we are against the Capitol's power. To us, it is the most hated, sadistic punishment of the Capitol…and Capitolians are so twisted that they find it the most thrilling form of entertainment ever devised. It makes no sense to me. Surely at least one Capitolian can see how wrong it all is?

Well, if there is one like that, it's not Rosiel Frieze. Rosiel exemplifies the excitement of her kind as she walks – or bounces, I suppose would be a better word for it – up to the podium after Mayor Neximus finishes and takes his seat.

"All right now, the moment has finally arrived!" she chirps, flashing an unnaturally bright grin. "It's time to select our tributes!" She hops quickly over to the ball on the right side of the stage, the one for the girls. "Ladies first!" she says as she reaches into the ball.

I feel Kaia grab my wrist, her nails digging into the inside of my arm, gripping me tightly at the moment of greatest fear. I twist my hand around and take hold of her hand in the same way, if only to give her a small bit of reassurance, whatever may happen.

"Shiori Atanne!"

At first I give a short sigh of relief, because Kaia is safe for this year. Then the name of the girl registers in my mind, at the same time Kaia takes in a horrified gasp. "Oh, no…" she whispers, distraught.

I grit my teeth in anger when I see a visibly unnerved Shiori making her way to the stage. Her face is even paler than usual, and I can see her shaking uncontrollably with terror. She moves for the stairs and tries to conceal her fear, but her wide, frightened eyes betray everything. She reminds me of trapped prey, after it sees a hunter and realizes its peril, a moment before an expertly thrown knife ends its life. I look at her helplessly. I don't know Shiori, but I see her at school and around the Seam. She's fifteen years old, I know, and she's the frailest and most timid girl I've ever encountered. Inwardly, I shake my head as she ascends the stairs and is enthusiastically greeted by Rosiel, who is apparently oblivious to her distress. Thin, sallow-faced, and weak, she won't last a minute in the Games. Against my will, my mind slams me with an image of what her bloody fate may be as soon as the gong sounds, and I push it back angrily.

"Oh…" Kaia whispers, and my heart wrenches when I remember that Kaia is a friend of hers. "Oh, Shiori, why you?"

I hear choked, heartbroken noises from somewhere in the crowd to my left, and know without looking that it is her parents, sobbing for their only daughter. I have to force myself not to look at them, because I know the sight will hurt. I glance at Kaia and see her struggling to keep her own tears back. I start to put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her, and then Rosiel practically sings into the microphone, "One down, one to go! Let's choose our boy tribute!"

When Kaia hears that, she finishes what I started, whipping around to wrap her arms around me, as if she thinks it could protect me from the Capitol. I drape an arm over her shoulder, and fully intend to whisper words of comfort to her, when the sound of Rosiel's gloved hand searching through the many slips of paper in the ball, which is faintly audible in the dead silence of the district, makes me involuntarily freeze. Sudden fear grips me with icy iron fingers, and my stomach twists. Terror consumes me within seconds and violent images of death race through my mind. The only coherent thoughts I can form as Rosiel picks out a slip and starts to pull it out of the reaping ball are a fast, desperate, mixed-up rush of pleas along the lines of _Don't let it be me It can't be me I can't leave them Please not me I can't go Not me!_

As Rosiel, with extreme care, opens the chosen slip, I feel robbed of the ability to breathe steadily. And when she reads out the name neatly written on the slip, my breathing stops altogether.

"Tirion Sagitto!"

When Rosiel Frieze reads out my name into the microphone, I feel as if some huge, invisible mass has slammed into me at full force, and at the same time Kaia lets out a horrified shriek. All I can think, dazed and struck dumb by the shock, is, _That was my name. That's me. It's me this year. _I step forward leadenly, moving as if I'm in a confused dream and unsure of why I'm doing what I'm doing. My sluggish advance towards the stage is based only on a lifetime of seeing every year's chosen tributes, however terrified or distressed they are, resignedly make their way up to the stage as the crowd solemnly parts for them, as they do now to let me through.

As I move through the crowd, with every pair of eyes in District 12 locked on me, Kaia darts after me and grabs at my arm. Instantly, I snap out of my stupor, stop dead, and my head snaps back to look at her. She looks more frightened and upset that I've ever seen her, and the look in her eyes, brimming with tears, makes me feel as though my heart is tearing itself apart. "Tirion," she whimpers frantically, desperately. "Tirion – "

I open my mouth to try and calm her, to tell her it's all right, but no words come. And some part of my mind tells me this is best, because if I did say those things I'd be telling her the most awful lie, getting her hopes up for me and then letting her down. So I stay frozen for a moment, mouth agape, when I suddenly remember the cameras trained on me from every corner of the square. It hits me that I probably look weak and foolish to the audience, and I know I need to act fast if I'm going to leave a good impression on them.

Getting out of this situation quickly is the first thing that comes to my mind, and, knowing it's cruel but seeing no other way, I yank my arm out of Kaia's and stride swiftly towards the stage. I do my best to make it appear purposeful, strong, and unafraid, when inside I feel as though I'm breaking. Kaia screeches, "Tirion, no!", and I hear quick, panicked movement behind me. Using every ounce of strength I have not to stop, I glance back to find out what's going on. I see Kaia, crying uncontrollably now, fighting to get to me but held back by Halle, the son of the mine captain. Like Shiori, I don't know Halle well, but I see him often in school and also when I trade my game, because his father can always be counted on to buy my rabbits. He's holding Kaia tightly and trying to keep her from rushing to my side, and he looks oddly pale and distressed, as if it was one of his siblings that had just been reaped instead of someone he barely knows. With his gray Seam eyes wide, Halle nods his head towards the stage, motioning wordlessly for me to go on.

With that, I nod back and turn to go and I stride to the stage uninterrupted. Rosiel greets me the same way she did to Shiori, and again she is undeterred by the lack of response. "And here we have our reaping winners! How exciting this is!" Rosiel gushes into the microphone, trying to give the reaping – which is turning out very dully by her standards – a bit more pizazz. She's all set to spout more of this to a district that looks even more depressed than at the start of the reaping, but is cut short by Mayor Neximus.

"Thank you, Miss Frieze," he intones in his always-formal tone. Rosiel narrows her unnaturally green eyes and looks very affronted, but does not say anything to him as she steps back and lets him take the microphone for the required reading of the Treaty of Treason.

As he reads, Shiori fidgets uncomfortably, scared and alone in the silence with everyone looking at her, and trying desperately to keep the tears back but failing greatly. The poor thing's a wreck; everyone will know that she's got no chance in the Games. I don't want to see the sorrow and pain, so I keep my eyes shut tight, blocking out the world as best I can. I present my body to the cameras as strong and fearless, hoping I will be perceived as such instead of deathly scared as I am starting to be now. Because I am a tribute now, and coming from District 12, there's no hope for me. None of our tributes have ever survived, and few have ever even made it out of the bloodbath.

Mayor Neximus finishes reading, turns to Shiori and me, and looks at us expectantly. Remembering what the tributes do at the end of the reaping ceremony, I take a short step towards Shiori and extend my hand to her. She is hesitant, but a moment later tentatively slips her slim hand into mine and gives it a limp squeeze.

"Lovely!" says Rosiel, and gestures to the two Peacekeepers standing at attention at either side of the Justice Building entrance. Without looking at her, the pair march forward to flank Shiori and me, and the one next to Shiori nudges her forward with the butt of his gun. She yelps when the metal touches her and she jumps forward and starts walking towards the Justice Building. I am already following when the Peacekeeper beside me prods me in the back with his own gun, and I feel a twinge of irritation for the unnecessary act.

The Peacekeepers march us through the double doors of the Justice Building, and when the doors slam I feel a sudden drop in my stomach, and the realization hits me – _I am going to die within two weeks. It's over, _I think. _Everything is over for me._ And on that thought, I feel no pain, but an awful emptiness inside like I never felt before, and to me it feels so much worse. I feel the worst sense of being lost and helpless than I ever have in my life. I'm meant to be one of the next victims of the Hunger Games…What on earth am I going to do now?

**~0~**

**[A/N] Hm…Four chapters and no reviews, how saddening. :( **

**But I know plenty of people are reading, so that makes me feel better. : ) Still, it would be nice to get some feedback.**

**Name meanings:**

**-Saine is a made-up name and has no meaning. If anyone was confused, his name is pronounced like "sane."**

**-Kaia's father's name Pearce means "rock." Halle means "solid as a rock."**

**-Shiori is a Japanese word, which, when used as a name, means "poet" or "weave." (When I was looking for a name for the character, I originally found a translation that said it meant "white," and I thought it fit her. I later found out it was wrong, but the name stuck anyway.)**

**-Rosiel is a made-up name that comes from "rose." A frieze is a richly ornamented or sculptured band in a building, or a banner covered with pictures. Effie's last name is Trinket (literally a showy ornament), and I chose Rosiel's last name to mean a similar thing.**

**-Delroy means "king" and Neximus means "I bind."**

**Musical themes:**

**-Tirion and Kaia's theme (I guess it could be their love theme, too) is "Calm and Hope", from Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. It's a very soothing and peaceful melody, which fits well with Kaia's personality and how Tirion feels calmer and more at ease around her.**

**-The theme of the reaping is "District 12," another piece by YouTube user RaeofRandomness. It's short, but it fits the gray and gloomy feeling of District 12's people perfectly, and it sounds a bit like a dreary march (you can definitely picture coal miners walking to the mines with it in the background). It's short, but good, and another reason I really think that's what should have been in the movie. Danny Elfman's a great composer, but I wasn't too impressed with his music for the Hunger Games movie. I didn't think it was very memorable or lent much emotion to the scenes or characters. (Flames in response to that opinion will be used to burn all of President Snow's rose gardens. Flame away, if you don't have a constructive argument.)**

**Next up, we go back to Rakhir and Ühel for District 2's reaping ceremonies. Stay tuned for updates!**

**~0~**


	10. The Reaping District 2

**Rakhir's POV**

Any other victory of mine might have been marred a bit by venomous words and an attitude like Ühel gave me, but this is by far my greatest, and I am determined not to let anything ruin it. Even now, almost a half-hour after I've won, people are still congratulating their newest Career. I've lost count of how many slaps on the back and words of praise I've gotten from what seems like the whole inhabitation of the prizefighting rings.

Arno and Fabron have taken the liberty of accepting the impromptu gifts I've received and storing them in my battered old sports bag so it'll be easier to carry them all. Reggie has probably been celebrating the hardest, and he has managed to get falling-down drunk in the time from my win until now. He staggers around, grinning and red-faced, with his umpteenth bottle of whiskey in his hand. He occasionally waves it around in the air with a loud, slurred whoop, making everyone else laugh at his expense, which he never minds. Then again, he might just be too drunk to notice at all.

I don't mind all this fuss at all; I want to bask in the glory of winning my place in the Games for as long as I can. Ühel stalked off right after her place as tribute was secured, and she hasn't come back. As far as I know, she isn't celebrating even a little. Now, I don't see much point in that. What's the fun in winning if you can't even enjoy it? Victories should be savored, every second you can spare spent in pleasure until you must begin working for your next one. And in the case of this latest one of mine, there is no opportunity to begin training here in the district. No, there are only two things left for me to do here – attend the reaping, and whosever name they call, yell "I volunteer!" and lope up to the stage amid the cheers of all the rest of the district.

"Hey, Rakhir," Girvin says as he comes over to me, rubbing his upper arms which no doubt ache a little from a few too many victory punches to the air. "Don't you need the rest of your stuff taken care of while you're gone? When are you going to go home to get it?"

Arno, who was explaining a sword-fighting technique of his own design to Leib's elder brother Ethon, who showed up hoping to catch the fights but ended up staying for the celebrations, hears him. He stops what he's doing and, glowering, stalks over to Girvin.

"Why'd you have to go and say that, you idiot?" he snaps, whacking Girvin in the side of the head. "His whole good mood, ruined in a second!"

Girvin looks both abashed and hurt. "Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his temple absently. "I was just thinking that – "

"You didn't _think,_" hisses Arno. "Just because you've got such a safe and cushy home, you want to remind the rest of us about the fact that we don't – "

"Hey, lay off him," I say, narrowing my eyes. Apparently I have one more thing to do that I overlooked – breaking the news to my mother. I can't say she'll react favorably, but still, I have to tell her. "He didn't mean any harm."

Arno doesn't look like he wants to be cut off just yet, but he settles for shooting a dirty look at Girvin and then stalking off back to Ethon, who looks a little worried about the whole exchange but decides not to say anything.

Girvin turns back to me, looking like a kicked puppy. "I-I'm sorry, Rakhir," he mutters, glancing away. "I didn't mean to…I mean, I wasn't trying to offend you or anything, I just – "

"Don't worry about it," I say, patting his shoulder. I've already moved what needed to be moved to my lockers down here. I only need to return to my house, one last time, for one reason. "I don't mind much. Actually, I should be thanking you for reminding me – I need to go rub this in the old vulture's face," I finish with a smirk, which makes him chuckle.

"Yeah," he says, sounding happier. "I'm sure she'll be ecstatic to hear about the great things her son's accomplished."

The light sarcasm in his voice is meant as a joke, and I can take that well, but I still have to face the truth in it. I nod at him and then turn to go, and when everybody sends me off with one last loud cheer (which sounds more like a roar as it reverberates through the spacious rooms), I grin happily, grateful for their support. But when I leave the prizefighting area and shut the door behind me, the grin drops instantly from my face. I joked about it with Girvin, but I don't find anything about what's waiting for me back home funny.

I take a deep breath, hoping my mother won't say or do anything to make me lose my temper yet again. In my home, things tend to…get out of hand between my mother and I. It's been this way literally all my life. I've been the one supporting us by earning money in the prize fights ever since my father's death left us without our main source of income, and all I ever got in return were countless cutting remarks about what a waste I am. Despite everything I do, every effort I make, the great hero of the Lower Village's future Careers is, to her, no more than the worthless and unwanted burden I was to her and my father when I was born.

It's true what Girvin said – none of what I've done, all the things I have done which would make any Career district parent proud of the honor they would bring onto themselves, their district, and their families, pleases her at all. Not even this, my accomplishing one of the most difficult feats in the district, will change her opinion of me, and I'm not expecting it to. I stopped trying to make her pleased with me a long time ago. My pre-reaping visit to her is perfunctory – the parents of one who is volunteering should always know beforehand.

No, I'm going to her for one reason and one alone – to start getting my own back from a lifetime of pain she caused me. A smile creeps onto my face at the thought, that now I will have the upper hand. And once I am victor, I will watch her suffer like she watched me for so long. The thought delights me so much, that I break into a run as I head for my home. Aside from being crowned victor, this is the moment I have wanted the most to make happen.

~0~

My house is like all the others in the district: a windowless, modest-sized stone structure virtually identical to the rest, with only a metal plaque to the side of the door with the family's name on it to distinguish it from every other dwelling. However, my house is different to me – every time I enter it the unnatural coldness of a far from happy home settles on my body, and the odor of the meat beginning to rot in our cellar, where my mother stores the meat we sell in the butcher shop, makes me scowl in disgust.

I scan the room for the house's one other occupant. Finding the main room empty, I decide to leave my newly acquired things in my room and then look for her. But as I start for the stairway that leads up to the roof, the door of the kitchen opens and my mother walks out.

She doesn't see me at first, preoccupied with drying off the last remnants of whatever she was making from her hands with a worn-out dishrag. But a moment later she is suddenly aware of the fact that she is no longer alone in the house. She stops dead when she notices me, and I involuntarily freeze in place. For a minute, there is tense silence – not unfamiliar to us – as I work to keep my face stoic and blank. She makes no such effort, staring at me with a how-dare-you-set-foot-in-my-house expression usually reserved for spiders, rats, and other such vermin. I force down my indignation at her look, and I decide to break the silence and get all this over with as soon as possible.

"Mother," I say tonelessly, to test her mood and see just how she'll react to me. She narrows her eyes at me, looking for all the world like the rattlesnakes that slither around the stone quarries near the mountains ready to snap at anyone off their guard. Clearly, she has a mind to give me a severe tongue-lashing today.

"What are you doing home?" she snaps, placing the rag down on the table and focusing all her attention on me. "I didn't expect you here before the reaping."

"I wouldn't have come home afterwards," I say levelly. "They give Careers a lot of privileges, but they don't let you stop home after you volunteer."

This was not the answer she expected, and it takes her by surprise. Her expression wavers, and she raises an eyebrow at me.

"I'm going to be this year's tribute," I say, and I grin in spite of myself. I've said those words many times before, boasting to my gang about what I plan to be, but this is the first time I've said them knowing for a fact that they were true. "I've won the right to volunteer."

To my credit, I've definitely taken her by surprise. For a moment, she looks at me almost curiously, as if I'm some strange thing she's never seen before. Despite my voice of reason warning me not to feel like this, a flicker of hope lights somewhere deep inside of me; thinking that maybe, just maybe, this could be it, that I've finally achieved the one thing that will change the way my mother thinks of me…

But that idea comes crashing down in the next moment. She narrows her eyes at me again, and her glare sears through me. "Our district has certainly changed for the worse," she says icily, her voice full of contempt, "if a worthless bastard like you is the best we can offer up in the Games."

I felt the grin slide off my face before she even started speaking, and my disappointment at her reaction quickly ignites into fury at her words. I should have known this would happen. That small hope is something I thought I had killed long ago. Why didn't I? Why did I think that somehow I could earn her approval? I don't want it anyway. She isn't worth it in the least. With that thought, I remind myself of why I came here.

"I thought you'd be happy about this," I say evenly, "if I'm as worthless as you think, I assumed you'd be elated that you'll finally be rid of me."

"For once, boy, you've got something right," she says - slowly, venomously. "At least now you'll be out of my life forever. You've been a burden on me and your father all these years, and now you'll finally be gone."

It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster not to lose it and start yelling every awful thing I can think of at her, as I've come to almost always do at this point. She knows that, and she cocks her head at me expectantly, waiting to see if she's set me off. _But no, _I think._ Not yet, you disgusting, sorry excuse for a mother._

"And what will you do with yourself, mother, once you're free of me?" I ask her levelly. She knows that this is unusual behavior from me, and her eyes narrow even further, they look like slits.

"What are you getting at, boy?" she hisses.

"I'm just wondering what you plan to do with yourself after I'm gone," I go on. "You know I'm never coming back here – after I win, there'll be no need for me to. I'll have my home in the Victor's Village. What will you do then?"

"You mean after you're killed?" she says, sneering. "You trying to earn my sympathy? 'Oh, mercy me, whatever will I do without my good-for-nothing brat of a son?' Is that what you want me to say?"

"I don't need or want anything from you," I snarl. "Good for nothing, am I? I think you're forgetting who's of real worth in this place."

"And I think you're forgetting the fact that this is my house, and you could be living off the streets in a second if I decide that I don't want you in it anymore – lazing around and taking all the rewards of my endless hard work like some kind of a parasite!" she shouts.

"Get off your high horse!" I snap angrily. "You know that even since Dad died, you've done practically nothing! Your butcher shop's a struggling place at best, so you're no help in supporting us! The only reason we're both keeping our heads above water is me! You're right – you could have kicked me out, but we both know the only reason you still haven't is because you need _me _to keep _you _alive!"

"You! Ha!" my mother scoffs. "All you ever do is shirk off working and spend all day at the underground rings with your scumbag friends and beat the crap out of each other for kicks! You've never done a decent day's work in your life. Why would I need you?"

"That's how I make nearly all the money in this place, and you know it! If not for me it would be you living off the street, or starving at least, because you can't live without someone doing it all for you!" I shout.

"Don't speak to me that way, you little ingrate!" she yells, slamming her hand on the table. "Your father was right, you know, you should never have been born! You're the biggest mistake I ever made, you useless waste!"

I know I shouldn't be letting her get to me now. It's ruining every good feeling I had this morning. But damn, if she doesn't know how to get right under my skin. She's gotten just as angry as me now, and she goes on shrieking at me, shouting every insult she can think of at me, one after another, all of them hitting me like spearheads in my body. I don't want to be, but by now I'm shaking with anger. She has no right – she never had any right – to say these things to me. She's gotten too used to doing as little work as she can and leaving someone else (anyone, really, her parents and siblings, friends, my father, and now me) to take care of everything for her. And she has the arrogance to constantly berate me about how worthless I've always been and how she knows that she and my father would have been far better off in life if I had never been born. Truth be told, they were struggling before I was born, and they hadn't intended to have any children; I was unwanted, unneeded, a frustrating mistake. At first, I certainly didn't help matters for them. But I learned fast and early.

I remember going out into the district at about four years old, in search of someone to teach me to fight – after all, if you're going to glean the rewards of a fight, first you have to learn how – and finding Ember and Blake Valaki. They were young themselves at the time, only about eleven. But the twins were still excellent Careers-in-training, and they took me under their wing and taught me everything they knew.

I took everything in, hungry for knowledge, and within a couple years I had learned how I was going to help my family and prove my worth to them. I was still very young, however, and still stupid enough to think that my parents were capable of caring about me. I had the idiotic idea that I could make them proud of me, if I only trained harder, won more fights, gotten more rewards for my victories. That all ended when I was eight years old.

Nothing had changed, if anything, my parents hated me more. Their quick sharp smacks became full-blown clouts to my face; their insults became more and more acerbic and degrading. They found my efforts to please them annoying, and one day my father decided that he had had enough of me. He took me out past the quarries on the outskirts of the district, to the foot of one of the mountains, telling me that he was proud of how I'd progressed as a future Career and that he had something special to teach me. It was a surprise, he said, so I couldn't tell anyone that we were going. I was so excited I thought I was going to burst with joy. I obeyed my father, and kept our trip a secret.

It was just before dawn when we arrived, and as soon as we did my father told me to turn around, and not look back at him until he was ready to show me what he wanted to show. I turned my back to him, waiting. And then I heard the slight metallic _shing _of a blade drawn from a sheath. He had said he wanted to show me a fighting technique, so I stayed as I was, thinking I would see him in a fighting stance with the knife. But it was the small, satisfied chuckle that he couldn't resist that gave him away. Suddenly sick with fright, I whipped around to face him, and in the next instant there was a knife blade in my face.

He intended to kill me there, secretly, and likely tell everyone I'd been killed by one of the mountain lions that frequented the area or something similar, as that was the lie I told when explaining how he died. But those weren't claw marks, as everyone thought. I had finally gotten my revenge, for once in my life fighting back against him and turning the knife on him after eight years of nothing but hatred and abuse, slashing through him over and over until he was barely recognizable.

My hope that I could somehow earn my parents' approval one day died with him, and I was reminded of that every time I looked in a mirror and saw the jagged scar on my face. I kept up supporting my mother as best I could because she insisted, and I reasoned that if I wanted to live in the house I would have to. But after eighteen years of abuse from her, I am ready to turn things around on my mother just as I did to my father. She's still carrying on at me, but she's slowing down slightly. Time for me to say what I need to and get out of this place for good.

"Mother!" I say, loud and sharp. She wasn't expecting me to say anything, so for a moment she is silent. I take a deep breath, and then begin in a steady and clear voice. "You can believe whatever you want. I'll still know the truth – that you can't support yourself on your own and you'll be ruined without me to keep you in your comfortable life. I'm leaving for the Capitol in a matter of hours, and I'm never coming back. Whether I win the Games or not, you'll be alone here from now on. We'll see how _worthless_ I am when I'm not here and you need me more than ever to help you. I think I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer from my new home in the Victor's Village," I finish venomously.

She's glaring at me like she never did before. It's as if she has a whole other reservoir of hatred for me, I can see it in her eyes, narrowed and burning with fury. "You little degenerate," she hisses. "I will laugh when they kill you."

I force myself to laugh at her, just to get in one more thing to spite her. "It's too bad you won't have that one last pleasure. Good-bye, mother."

And without looking to see how she reacts, I turn around and walk out of my home for the final time.

~0~

I spot my gang the instant I step onto the main road leading into the square. They're all hanging around outside the small shop and bar Leib's eldest brother Beltrán works at, buying root beers and chatting with him. _Probably on his break, _I think. Daiza, who I notice had been looking over his shoulder every few seconds – most likely for me, I realize with a grin – jumps up when he sees me and excitedly informs the others of my arrival, and they all turn and shout greetings to me across the road, waving me over. My grin widens as I cross the road to reach them. These five boys are my real family, I think happily.

As soon as I come within a few steps of them, Arno dashes over, throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me up to the counter. "One more, Beltrán?" he asks, tossing a couple more coins on the counter. When I start to say something, he immediately puts his hand up to my face. "No, no, my treat, I insist," he says. "For the future victor of District Two!"

"In that case," Beltrán says, smiling, "this one's on the house. Boss says that future Careers get their drinks free."

"Well, in _that _case, give me my money," Arno says, swiping his coins back into his pocket and taking a good gulp from his drink.

Beltrán ignores Arno and turns to me. "My little brother here tells me you gave Stone Wystan the beating of a lifetime back there," he says, clapping Leib on the shoulder. "Good for you. I lost count of how many times he came swaggering in here with his gang and giving me and everyone else crap about being from the Lower Villages and threatening to jump us if we complained. You don't know how happy my friends and I were when we found out how you beat him for good."

"You never told me that," Leib said, frowning. "Why didn't you just ask us for help?"

Beltrán shrugs, unconcerned. "There were other Upper Village gangs who did the same thing. I wasn't about to ask the five of you to take them all on, because they'd all have kept on hassling us. Anyway, it's enough for me that the little snob finally got what was coming to him," he says airily. He grins at me. "And I couldn't have picked a better man to do it."

I smile back, feeling a glow of pride warm me inside. Now, surrounded by my friends, my mother's hate-filled face and words seem like nothing to me, compared with the affection and friendship I share with them. And when Fabron adds that they also couldn't have picked a better man to fight for District 2 in the Games, evoking a chorus of agreements, my resolve to win for them all is strengthened. _Nothing will stand in my way, _I think proudly, and for a moment I don't notice Daiza trying to get my attention. I turn and look down at him, and, not for the first time, I think how funny it is that he only comes up to my stomach and he's one of the toughest little fighters I know. He'll make an excellent Career one day, if I've trained him right.

"What is it, Daiza?" I ask.

"It's a quarter after eleven!" he says urgently. "We need to be at the square in fifteen minutes!"

I glance at the clock on the wall inside and see he's right. The rest of the gang notices too and immediately put down their drinks and look at me. I turn and look down the road in the direction of the square. Mount Nadare stands out - huge, dark, and proud – against the pale blue-gray sky. At the foot of that mountain is where I will finally become what I was meant to be – a Career fighting for the honor of District 2, and later a victor, a near-demigod of the three Career districts. I certainly can't be late for an occasion like that.

"So soon?" I say, a grin spreading over my face as elation rises inside me. "Then let's not waste any time. If we go fast, we'll be right on time. Let's get going!"

My gang gives a chorus of assent, excited to see their leader claim his rightful title. Beltrán joins in, then a loud voice from inside calls him in.

"Ah, that's my boss," he says. "I've got to go help close up shop early for reaping day. You guys go on ahead. Leib, Ethon and I will meet you there!"

Leib nods and we bid him a quick goodbye as he hurries back into the shop, all of us each to get moving. Daiza starts out at the head of the pack, probably the most eager of us to get to the reaping. However, I've overtaken him in a matter of moments, running out ahead of them all, with the biggest grin plastered on my face. The feeling of wild exhilaration races through my veins as I sprint towards the square. This is a bigger thrill than anything I've ever felt, knowing that I'm finally on my way to take what I've worked for, for fourteen years. _If this is what it's like now, _I think, _then I can hardly wait to get to the Games!_

~0~

This reaping is the debut of our newest escort, Crevan Corbett, who hopped up energetically onto the stage, pleased to take the place of our elderly previous escort and doubly pleased, no doubt, to act as escort for real tributes instead of coal rats, as he'd apparently been doing for a couple years before his promotion. It all works out for me as well as him – I pitied the tributes of several years prior up to now, who had to work with an old and doddering escort who barely had any idea what he was doing anymore. I'd much rather not be hampered by an escort like that, and Crevan seems like a capable man, though a bit too eager to show off whatever talent he has.

I have to suppress a chuckle as I watch Crevan sitting at the back of the stage, visibly itching to go and take the microphone and also visibly irritated at the fact that he has to wait for Mayor Emory to finish reading both the history of Panem and the extensive list of previous victors before he can take the spotlight. Luckily for both of us, Emory, who always sounds bored and annoyed with her duties at the reaping, as if there are far better things she could be doing with the wasted time, finishes soon enough. Almost the second she turns from the podium to return to her seat, Crevan is dashing up to the microphone; Emory glaring at him as he unprofessionally bolts by her.

"Hello, District Two!" Crevan greets us jovially, flashing a gleaming white grin of the kind only Capitolians can give. "Now, I know we've all been waiting for the real event to start for quite a while" – everyone sees his eyes flick back to Emory, who now appears to be trying to will daggers to fly into his back with her narrowed eyes – "so let's not waste any more precious time, eh?"

Crevan bounds over to the left side of the stage and pats the girls' reaping ball. "Let's start with the ladies!" he announces. And without further ado, he reaches into the giant glass ball and paws around in the thousands of paper slips, selecting one and whipping it out in a few seconds. He goes back to the podium, smoothing out the slip, and then calls out the name in a loud, clear voice: "Lyme Jackson!"

Immediately, a girl of about twelve or thirteen makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gasp, her eyes go wide, and she frantically shrinks back into her group of friends, looking as if she's trying to hide from the piercing gaze of the cameras. This evokes laughter from Crevan and some other audience members, including, I see, Arno and Fabron, from where they're together in the group of seventeen-year-olds. Rather than being amused, my lip curls in disgust. What's the matter with this kid? She knew she wasn't going to go anyway, since only those who earn it can go into the Games. It seems like it was the idea of going that frightens her. Someone needs to teach this girl a lesson, and fast. Though she's young and not as well-trained, every District 2 child is made strong and capable from childhood, whether they train as Careers or not. Our most important lesson is to be strong enough to withstand pain and erase fear, as those emotions are crippling. If those still remain in such great amounts in a person of her age, it is disgraceful. Obviously, she hasn't been taught right.

But not to worry. I've only had a moment or so to consider this, when a familiar voice yells, "I volunteer!" and the crowd almost automatically parts to let Ühel by as she strides to the stage. As she goes by Lyme, she, making no effort to hide her actions, whips out her arm and smacks the girl in the back of the head so hard I see her go cross-eyed for a second. "Coward!" I hear Ühel snap at her, her voice full of contempt. She doesn't look back once as she heads off, leaving the girl clutching her head and sniffling, trying to fight back tears.

As Ühel ascends the stairs and approaches center stage, I notice Crevan's gung-ho attitude falters slightly under her unwaveringly vehement stare, and he looks nervous as she comes nearer to him. He seems to be willing himself not to back away under the intensity of her glare, and wondering why she's looking so angry with him. I snicker under my breath at him. _Don't worry, Crevan, _I think. _That's just her face._

Crevan, who to his credit recovers and is hiding his nervousness quite well, puts on a bright smile and moves to address Ühel. "Wonderful! And what might your name be, miss?" he asks.

"Ühel Dragul," she states, and then moves behind Crevan and looks expectantly at him. When after maybe a second he doesn't do anything, she narrows her eyes at him and snaps, "Well, keep going, we don't have all day."

Crevan looks taken aback by her brusqueness for a moment, but quickly appears to recover and spins back to the microphone. "We've got one lovely lady tribute – " he turns his head and winks at Ühel, causing her glare to intensify – "now let's pick our boy!"

He zips over to the boys' reaping ball, digs around in the slips for a few moments, and heads back to the podium after retrieving one. He opens his mouth to read out the name, but never gets farther than that. At that moment, someone else screams out, "I volunteer!"

My jaw drops and I stand there, stunned silent and immobile. Everyone knows that this is my year. Who would ever blatantly defy the code of the district and attempt to volunteer in my stead?! My answer becomes clear soon enough, as the crowd – as shocked as I am and not knowing what else to do – awkwardly parts to reveal Stone Wystan, who is looking at the stage and running at it like a shipwrecked man who's sighted an island.

_What?! _is the only thought I can form for a few moments. _What?_ _What is he doing? I beat him! I proved that it's me who deserves to fight in the Games, not him! Just who the hell does he think he is?!_

By now, my shock has given way to surging anger. Stone cannot – _will _not – be allowed to do this. It's an open mockery of our values and laws. Soon, someone will recover and stop him from volunteering. And that someone might as well be me, the rightful tribute. Spurred on by rage, I charge through the throng and reach the stage in maybe five seconds. I get to Stone just as he reaches the top of the stairs, and I seize his shirt collar and twist him around to face me.

"What do you think you're doing, Stone?" I grind out through clenched teeth. "Aren't you forgetting something? Like who soundly _beat you _just a while ago? Why are you still trying to prove you're best, when I've already bested you?"

But even as I say the words I can see why. Stone's eyes are slightly unfocused, his body trembling, and his expression, which from far away looked only a bit strange, looks…deranged. Close up like this, I'm beginning to realize the guy's not all there, with the injuries I dealt him earlier only enhancing the look. It's as if I literally knocked the sense out of him.

"You can't stop me, Vadállat," he whispers throatily, clenching his fists. "This…is my place…I deserve it. I've always deserved better than you…because I am better than you…I am the victor!"

"Are you kidding me?" I hiss. "Don't tell me you're seriously still thinking you're naturally better because you were born in a classier place! Besides, you had us make a deal on that last fight, remember? You swore that if you lost you would admit you were wrong about all Lower Villagers and that you'd never say another word against them? What happened to that, huh?"

At that, the corners of Stone's mouth pull back in a demented semblance of a smile. "I said that, didn't I…" he says softly, and then begins to chuckle coldly in my face. "Well, I hardly think I need to keep my word to a piece of trash like you, Vadállat. Ha, that's right," he adds with a laugh as my grip on his shirt tightens in anger. "You're a Lower Villager, Vadállat. You're lower than dirt. You're worth _nothing, _understand? So you don't deserve even a _chance _at trying to pretend you're anything more than – "

With every word that comes out of Stone's mouth, a new surge of fury shoots through me. I don't need this today. This is supposed to be the great, proud day I've worked nearly all my life for. Stone echoing the words of my mother…The sound of the never-ending insults and belittling is the last thing I want to hear, on any day. I've had enough. Just…enough! I won't take this anymore!

Spurred on by rage, I let go of Stone's shirt and put my whole body into one strong, straight punch that slams perfectly into Stone's throat, and follow it up with a quick pivot and side kick to the chest that sends him flying into the podium, the impact of his body making the expensive wood crack and splinter. Crevan takes a leap back and starts quickly backpedaling, looking frightened; Ühel merely takes a quiet step back and looks on with an expression of mild interest. I'm not done yet; Stone barely has a moment to process what just happened before I lunge for him, grab him by the back and collar of his shirt, and hurl him off the stage as easily as a child throwing a baseball.

He flies a good twenty feet from me, a high-pitched shriek issuing from him the whole way, and unfortunately for him, he only stops once he strikes one of the boulders that litter the base of Mount Nadare headfirst. Everyone hears the loud, sickening soundof Stone's skull cracking on impact with the rock. I hear quite a few startled gasps and even some frightened screams coming from the crowd watching.

It puzzles me at first, seeing as my people are used to constant fighting and the injuries that come with it; but then I see that it mostly came from either the youngest children in the crowd, who are still learning the ways of the district, or the cameramen and crew sent from the Capitol, who annually enjoy the gore of the Games but are wholly unused to seeing it up close and not on a screen. This is probably the most action-packed reaping they've seen, and a thrill runs through me once I realize that this is a great thing. This way, everyone will remember me for it, and I'll probably have gained a good amount of sponsors. A tribute that nobody will forget in a hurry has a great advantage, and one that the Capitol audience remembers and takes a liking to has a better chance of winning. The corners of my mouth pull up into a wide smile at this thought, and the thought hits me that that's good, too, seeing as everyone will think I'm grinning like a psychopath because I've just shattered some poor bastard's skull.

Speaking of Stone, he hasn't gotten up yet; he's still lying where he's landed and not looking too good. His face is screwed up in pain, and blood is streaming down his face from the gash on his scalp and leaking slowly from his ears and nose. I can see the wounds from where I'm standing: the cut bright red and gushing blood against his pale skin and black hair, and a dark bruise forming around his Adam's apple where I punched him. I can't see the amount of damage done to his chest, but I definitely felt his ribs crack under my foot when I kicked him. Add that to the injuries he already has from our fight earlier that can't have healed yet, and I know for a fact that Stone is currently in a world of pain.

It's taken a minute, but a group of medics from the (luckily for Stone, nearby) hospital has realized that they're needed, and while two retrieve a stretcher the others hurry forward to tend to Stone. While they go about their job, someone else has forced his way through the crowd to reach the wounded boy. Tobin emerges from the throng, making a beeline for Stone.

"Boss!" he calls, worry showing on every line of his chalk-white face. "Boss! Are you all right?" His fear only becomes more prominent when the only answer he receives is a low, drawn-out moan of agony from his fallen hero. "Boss!" Tobin wails piteously, and follows after the medics carting Stone off to the hospital, quickly running out of sight.

Finding it strange that only one of Stone's lackeys went to see if he would be all right, I scan the crowd for the rest of them. They're there, all together – and none of them seem to care about how badly their leader is hurt. Their expressions are all the same apathetic, let's-get-this-thing-over-with-quick looks. It seems like their biggest concerns are how soon they can get home and spend the rest of the afternoon off doing as they please. I consider resisting the urge to chuckle at the fact that Stone's gang only cares about him if he – and by extension, them - could be the best on the block, and if he's not, then they leave him to die. A second later, I dismiss the idea and decide to go ahead with it, and for added measure, make sure the cameras will catch it. How pathetic, that they would abandon him so quickly, and my real friends are so unerringly loyal to me. I suspected they only hung around with Stone to get a little bit of the power he had, and to have them prove he right is an added bonus to beating Stone up again and unofficially re-winning my place as tribute. So I throw back my head and give a crazed laugh that will mark me to the Capitolians and the other tributes as wild, brutal, unpredictable – in short, an excellent tribute, one to keep watch on in the Games.

Crevan has been all but cowering in fear at the back of the stage during all this. When I stop laughing, take a breath to calm myself, and then turn to look at him, he gives quite a start. Shaking a little, he glances at Mayor Emory, who has been sitting and watching with little interest, for an indication of what to do next. She gives him a searing glare and sharply jerks her head in my direction, telling him to get on with the process. With a little nod to her, he trots nervously towards me and I can't help but smirk at his discomfort. He reminds me of a scared chipmunk, and it's impossible not to find it funny.

"S-So…" Crevan begins, trying to recover his former enthusiasm. "I think we've got a second volunteer!" He gives a shaky laugh. "W-What's your name?"

"Rakhir Vadállat," I say proudly. "The next victor of District Two!"

"G-Great!" Crevan says, flashing a plainly fake smile. "Now that we have both our tributes, we – "

"We'll leave it to me to finish up the reaping," says Mayor Emory, who has come striding back up – accompanied by Ühel - to give the required reading of the Treaty of Treason. "That is, unless it's too dull for your liking, Mr. Corbett," she adds to Crevan under her breath, making him flush crimson and laugh nervously. Emory doesn't seem amused. "Perhaps our District is a bit much for you," she tells him, with the air of a disappointed teacher admonishing a failing child. "You might want to reconsider working with our people."

"No, no, I think…I-It's just fine…" Crevan starts, but then trails off as Emory briskly turns from him to Ühel and I, expecting us to shake hands. We look at each other, neither of us wanting to give the other any gesture of goodwill, then compromise by grabbing hands, giving a slight squeeze, and letting go almost the moment we make contact with the other. Emory does not look pleased with that.

"You both are the best of our Careers-in-training this year," she says in a steely voice, eyes narrowed. "Don't dishonor our district." And without waiting to see our response, she turns to face the crowd, and (after glancing with distaste at the podium, which is now so damaged that it's caving in from one side) begins to read the Treaty.

As she plows on with it in her clear, cool voice, Ühel comes up closer to me than I'd like. "Next victor, Vadállat?" she whispers with a little laugh. "You wish."

The self-satisfied smirk reappears on my face. She thinks I'll fail? There's no way I could. Nothing will stop me from attaining my ultimate goal now, not when I've trained so hard all my life and gotten halfway there already. I've gotten into the Games, now all that's left is the hard part – fighting through it and making it out alive. It'll be difficult, sure, but I'm ready for anything that anyone can throw at me.

"Oh, yeah?" I say softly, so only she can hear it. "Well, we'll just see about that."

Emory finishes reading, and after bidding the crowd farewell, she gestures to us and then to the doors of the Justice Building, where we are directed to the rooms where we will bid our loved ones farewell.

As the heavy double doors slam shut behind me, a sense of finality washes over me. I am a tribute in the Hunger Games, and I can't change that even if I tried. My fate is sealed, there is no going back. Then again, I don't want to go back. Sure, the members of my gang are the best friends I could have asked for, but aside from them, the life I lead before is pitiful compared with the one I now have a chance at winning.

I want to take that chance. I will do everything in my power to either win the Hunger Games or die trying. And I have no intention of being killed by any of the other weaklings in the arena with me. No. This year is my year. If they're in an arena with me, they're dead already. I will survive the arena and come home proud and victorious, no matter what I have to do. I am the victor, and no one else stands a chance.

**~0~**

**[A/N] – Wh-hoo! Tenth chapter! **

**Well, that's two reapings down, only one more to go! Though I will be trying to work on a couple other stories at the same time, so it might take a while…Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated! Really, just the name of your favorite character or even a smiley face will do if you liked it. : )**

**Name meanings: **

**-Rakhir's mother's name is Hasira, which means "anger" in Swahili. His father's name was Canicus, meaning "born of fire."**

**-Crevan means "fox" and his last name, Corbett, means "raven" or "dark-haired."**

**-Emory means "industrious leader."**

**R&R, please?**

**~0~**


End file.
